


nights without sleep and days that burn

by ruffboi



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Witchers, M/M, Murder, No beta we die like stregobor should have, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Physical Abuse, Pre-Relationship, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, chosen family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi
Summary: There was no madness in the eyes looking out from behind lank white hair, close enough he could reach out and brush it behind the witcher's ear."Areyou bound to defend and serve me?" Julian asked, tilting his head slightly."Yes," the wolf growled, low and rumbling and nearly inaudible.-----Prince Julian of Kerack, when he came of age and was officially named his father's heir, was gifted four bound and controlled witchers by the king of Kaedwen: the last four wolves of Kaer Morhen. Julian would prefer to accept the gift and set them free, but is forbidden from doing that on pain of their deaths. So instead, all he can do is apologize and treat them decently.This simple, compassionate act sets off a series of events that will irrevocably change his life, his witchers' lives, and the lives of everyone living in the Northern Kingdoms.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Comments: 1141
Kudos: 1690





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 
  * Inspired by [Long Live the King](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26480611) by [stockholm_syndrom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stockholm_syndrom/pseuds/stockholm_syndrom). 
  * Inspired by [nemo me impune lacessit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933005) by [MissDinahDarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDinahDarling/pseuds/MissDinahDarling). 



> Updates ~~on Fridays~~ ~~every other Friday~~ honestly whenever school stops kicking my ass enough to let me write again.
> 
> Welcome to my beloved Princekier fic! This started out as a 10k fic loosely sparked by DinahDarling, and then spiralled out into this whole thing that takes inspiration from two OTHER amazing fics.
> 
> Many many thanks to my beloved Bards of Geraskier discord for being encouraging and loving and enabling (especially handwrittenhello, icedragondreams, eyesofshinigami, khansen, and teamfreehoodies), and thank you to my bff Dor/jackironsides for listening to me ramble, and my wife for listening to me ramble even though she hasn't read any of it yet.
> 
> Other tags and characters may be added as necessary.

Prince Julian of Kerack was bored out of his mind.

All right, that wasn't strictly true. He'd been far more bored before, in classes, in council meetings. This was a banquet, to celebrate his coming of age and official naming as Crown Prince and heir to the throne. It was _interesting_. Really.

It's just that he hated every moment of it, because it was the second-to-last nail in the coffin of his soul and his life. The last one before his father died and drove home the last one and trapped him as the king of a nation he knew he wasn't fit to rule. Not _well_. He had no ability to distance himself from individual people, no ability to keep the big picture in mind when there was a small picture right in front of him.

He'd be awful at this. His sister was older, smarter, better suited, but she was a woman and Kerack only allowed a woman to claim the throne if she had no brothers to take her place. So unless Julian fancied dying tragically or committing treason (and he had considered both options briefly before realizing he wasn't that desperate yet) he was it.

So he was trapped at a banquet that he was trying to ignore without making it obvious he was ignoring it, smiling and nodding at visiting dignitaries and thanking them for the gifts they presented without really taking note of what they were.

Until the king of Kaedwen stepped up with four chained men behind him.

Julian barely heard the official introduction and the greetings from the king, because he was too busy staring. They weren't slaves, not in the traditional sense, if only because Kerack had outlawed slavery under Julian's great-grandfather King Alfred II, but they certainly weren't free, bound as they were. They were large, and strong, and armored. The two men on either end were white-haired, though only one looked actually old. The old man seemed the calmest of them, but seemed to be taking in everything around him. The other white-haired man seemed to have his jaw clenched, his head ducked slightly, avoiding the gazes of the murmuring nobles around them. Between them were two dark-haired men, one jutting his chin out and glaring angrily at anyone who stared at him too long, the other staring placidly ahead. Julian wondered what had caused the twisting scar on the side of his face that he'd been able to _survive_.

And Julian wasn't close enough to be able to make out the color clearly, but he could tell that all four men had the same eyes.

"Your Highness," the king of Kaedwen was saying, and Jaskier forced himself to pay attention, "these beasts are the last of the witchers of Kaer Morhen." There was a gasp and ripple of increased whispering amongst the guests, and Julian felt his heart stutter. He'd learned about witchers, a bit - mostly from old tales and reading things he wasn't supposed to during his lessons. Mutants created to hunt monsters, gone mad and rabid with time as the magic used to create them corrupted their minds.

"You bring my son such dangerous things?" Julian's father, King Tomasz asked with a frown. The Kaedweni king inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"These four have been tamed as far as can be done, and bound to serve and defend he who holds the key to their enchantment," the king, Julian thought his name might be Szymon, continued, removing a pendant from around his neck and stepping forward to offer it to Julian. "The chains are for the peace of mind of your court, of course," King Probably-Szymon added. Julian glanced at his father briefly, catching a slight nod, before reaching out and taking the pendant and, after a brief glance at the four witchers, slipping the chain over his head.

"Go, then, Julian," King Tomasz said, sounding curious and a bit eager. "See if King Szymon's gift is acceptable."

Julian repressed a grimace and stood, stepping forward to just outside of arm's reach of the witchers, looking from one to the other of them. The defiant one curled a lip at him but said nothing. The scarred one looked straight ahead. The old one watched him with slightly narrowed eyes, like a man sizing up a threat.

Julian stepped up to the last, his face still angled down, but those eyes flicked up to meet Julian's as he stepped close enough to be touched. 

"Careful, Your Highness," King Szymon said. "That one's the most beastly of them all, even enchanted. A starving wolf backed into a corner, if you're not careful."

Julian didn't say anything, but stepped infinitesimally closer to this "starving wolf". He knew he should be afraid, especially without testing that King Szymon's enchantment even worked. But somehow, while he knew these witchers distrusted him - and he couldn't blame them for that - he wasn't in any danger, even without the pendant. There was no madness in their eyes.

There was no madness in the eyes looking out from behind lank white hair, close enough he could reach out and brush it behind the witcher's ear.

" _Are_ you bound to defend and serve me?" Julian asked, tilting his head slightly. 

"Yes," the wolf growled, low and rumbling and nearly inaudible.

Julian could see the scarred witcher's fingers twitch slightly, like he wanted to reach out to the wolf but wouldn't let himself here. He glanced further down the line, at the defiant one now scowling at the ground, like he couldn't quite meet Julian's eyes.

At the elder witcher, who met his eyes evenly and didn't look away. Julian wondered if the witcher had made up his mind about him. If he had been found a credible threat or found wanting.

He stepped back again, not looking away from these men.

"I accept your gift, King Szymon," Julian said, doing his best not to curl his lip at the thought. It was slavery, it would be unconscionable even if they _had_ been mad and rabid, but mutants were not considered _people_. There was nothing preventing _their_ forced servitude in Kerack as there was for the "intelligent peoples of the continent".

"May they serve you well, Crown Prince," Szymon replied, shooting a smug look to the other visiting dignitaries, whose gifts had not gotten nearly this intent a reaction from Julian. 

Julian gestured for a guard to step forward, then turned back to the witchers. 

"Follow this guard back to my rooms," he told them, he hoped in a way that didn't sound too much like an order, or compel them due to the enchantment. "I'll see food and drink are sent for you." 

He then turned to the guard. "Take them to my rooms and find supper for them, and guard the door so they aren't disturbed."

"Yes, your highness," the guard responded, and bowed. The witchers followed, but not before casting suspicious looks at Julian as they passed.

Once the witchers had passed through the crowd and out of the hall, Julian's father stood and spread his hands.

"With this final gift, our honored guests are welcomed, and we celebrate in earnest the coming of age of my son and heir, Crown Prince Julian Alfred of Kerack!" A cheer echoed through the halls, and Julian forced himself to smile, returning to his seat next to his father as the food and drink was brought out. Julian barely ate (though he had plenty of wine), and all but forced himself to stay at the banquet instead of racing to his rooms to ensure that the witchers hadn't been mistreated in his absence, and to give them the means to leave Kerack.

Once the music began to shift from proper court music to slightly more bawdy tunes, as the remaining guests had one too many glasses of wine, and the more prim ladies began to trickle out, Julian figured he was within the window of propriety for the guest of honor of a banquet to make a quiet exit. He finished his wine, and found his father gripping his wrist tightly before he could stand.

"I know you're a soft touch, boy," Tomasz said quietly. "If you won't keep the beasts, you will give them to me or you will have them killed." Julian stiffened, and schooled his face into as close to impassivity as he could before facing his father.

"I don't know what y—" he started, then hissed in pain as Tomasz's grip tightened and twisted under the edge of the table, threatening to break his wrist.

It wouldn't be the first time.

"Don't play innocent, Julian," Tomasz hissed, his pleasant smile out at the guests unwavering. "You're softer than my grandfather. You wish to set these beasts loose on our people. If I find you've done so, I will have them recaptured and executed at your feet, before deciding on a punishment for your disobedience. Now. You will swear to keep them under your control or you will give the pendant to me, _now_."

" _Fine_ ," Julian snapped, grimacing as the bones in his wrist ground together under his father's grip, restraining himself from contorting to try to lessen the pain of the unnatural direction his arm was being twisted in. "I swear. They will stay under my command. My oath as Crown Prince."

"Good," Tomasz replied, and let go of Julian's wrist. It was only practice that kept Julian from drawing his hand back to cradle it against his chest - it would bruise, and may have re-fractured slightly if the sharp pains were any indication. He didn't, though, simply stood, bowed respectfully to his father as was expected by the guests and nobles, and left without another word.

He ducked into a little alcove before making it all the way to his rooms, so he could assess the damage, pushing the sleeves of his shirt and doublet up so he could see. Flexing his wrist hurt, there were already bruises developing, and his grip seemed shakier than usual, but he could grasp the pendant around his neck well enough, letting the weight of it be held by his hand rather than the chain, so he hoped it would only be a few days before he was back to full range of motion rather than weeks this time.

He pulled his sleeves back down and strode more confidently than he felt back to his suite of rooms, nodding to the guard standing outside, and stepped into his sitting and reception room, closing the door behind him before turning to survey his witchers.

Their chains were scattered on the floor, like they'd removed them themselves and tossed them aside carelessly, which honestly saved Julian the trouble of trying to find if King Szymon had even provided anyone a key that he could use to remove the shackles himself. There was an untouched tray of what looked like stale bread and old cheese, and a pitcher of water with no cups to pour it into. And the four witchers were clustered together on the far end of the room, the fire having died down somewhat and their eyes reflecting like cats in the low light.

He frowned at the tray, and then at them.

"Was... this what they brought you to eat?" he asked, incredulously. There was no response from the witchers, and Julian pressed his lips into a line and went to pull the cord to summon a servant before going to prod at the fire in the large fireplace himself.

A servant appeared in the doorway and curtseyed to him. She was newer, but he was pretty sure her name was Ela.

"Your highness?" she asked, eyes flicking back to the witchers nervously.

"That tray and pitcher," he said firmly. "Take it back to the kitchen. That food is fit only for pig slop at this point, not to be fed to my guards."

"Yes, your highness," she said softly.

"Bring back a tray of fresh bread, fruits, cheese. Some salted meats or stew if there's any left from the banquet. A pitcher of wine and actual glasses for them to drink from." He forced himself to stay calm, and to smile at the girl - she certainly hadn't been the one who decided what to send for the witchers to eat, and she was clearly afraid. "And if you've a lighting stick so I can light my lamps, I'd appreciate it."

She managed a shaky smile back at him, despite her continued nerves at the presence of the witchers, and produced a thin wooden candlelighter for him. The servants that saw to Julian's needs knew him well enough not to be afraid of _him_ , at least, and he wouldn't force any of them to deal with the presence of the witchers tonight any more than necessary.

"Also," he added, "after the food, if you could perhaps find a few larger sets of spare clothes, it would be helpful. But if you can't, don't fret, all right? I know it's late, we'll manage if we have to wait until morning." she nodded and bobbed another curtsey. "Thank you, Ela," he said, and her brightened smile as she turned to grab the tray of unacceptable food told him he'd remembered her name right, thank Melitele. 

Once she was out the door, he moved to light the candlelighter in the fireplace, then set to lighting the lamps around the sitting room, at least, though he gave the witchers a bit of space. He lit the lamps in his own room and private baths as well, glad for the ingenious plumbing that allowed him to pipe water directly into his bath, and then out again through a drain in the bottom, because it would save a lot of time, if any of the witchers wished to bathe.

After lighting the lamps, he shucked his rings and doublet and shoes, and padded back out to see if the witchers had moved at all. 

They had, mostly moving into more defensible positions facing the door to his room and baths and the door to the hallway. New food and wine had been placed on the table, though they hadn't touched it.

"Are... are you hungry?" he asked them. "You don't have to eat if you don't want to, but I thought... it didn't seem likely Szymon would've made sure you got supper _before_ the banquet."

They were silent, just... staring at him. He sighed, and rubbed his uninjured hand over his face.

"Right, um. Okay, I'll... just take a bite of a bunch of this so you know I'm not trying to poison you or anything, in case that's..." they didn't move, so he nodded and went over and pulled a piece of crust off the bread, nibbling on it, wondering if he should drink some of the wine, when—

"We'd be able to smell poison," the older witcher said. "We know it's not."

Julian blinked back at them, could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. "Oh," he said. "Well, I. I didn't know that, I guess that's good to know."

He reached up and fiddled with the pendant, and if he hadn't been looking at them so intently he may not have noticed the way they all tensed just slightly when he handled it.

He dropped it immediately.

"I—" Julian stepped towards them, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt that had gotten untucked from his pants. "Listen, I'm sorry about... I was going to come back and give this thing back to you and get you some money and food and help you sneak out of the palace," he admitted with a tight smile. "but I'm... my father knows me well. If I let you go, he'll have you recaptured and executed. My options were to keep you under my command, give you to him, or have you executed. I... hope you'll forgive me for taking the first option."

They didn't speak. 

There was a soft knock on the door, and at his call Ela slipped back in with a curtsey, her arms full of clothes. 

"I've found some spares, your highness," she said softly. "Shall I set them on the table?"

"Yes, that's fine, Ela, thank you," Julian said with a smile. "Is the guard still outside?" 

"Yes, your highness," she said. Julian huffed a sigh.

"Tell him to return to his post at the end of the hall," he said, loudly enough that the guard should hear him and not question Ela's passing on of the message. "I've no need for a nursemaid sat outside my room. And you finish your duties and see yourself to bed," he added more quietly. "It's late and I know you'll need to be up early."

"Yes, your highness," Ela repeated, bobbed a curtsey, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Right," Julian said with a deep sigh, and walked back to the far end of the sitting room, approaching the quiet, scarred witcher. "Now if you'll just take this armor off—"

He was cut off when the witcher's hand whipped up to grab the wrist of his outstretched hand. The witcher's grip wasn't hard, had probably only been intended to keep Julian from touching him, but it was the wrist his father had already well-bruised less than a half hour before, and Julian let out a sharp, pained yelp before he managed to clench his jaw against the pain. The witcher dropped his wrist like he'd been burnt, and stepped back, eyes wide.

"I... I didn't—" he started to say, not to Julian but to the oldest of them, and Julian shook his head.

"No, you— it's fine," he managed, forcing a tight smile in an attempt to reassure the witcher, and turned to address the eldest. "It wasn't his fault, his grip was perfectly controlled."

He didn't know why he did that, but... the witcher hadn't tried to make his excuses to Julian, but to the one who could only be the leader of this small little band, and Julian wanted to be sure that any lectures or punishments that might happen in any moments of privacy might be mitigated if he vouched for the scarred witcher's care not to intentionally hurt him.

It seemed to be the right thing to do, as well, as the eldest hummed thoughtfully and seemed to be reassessing Julian. It wasn't the same as he'd done in the great hall during the banquet, but Julian couldn't for the life of him pinpoint the difference.

"You smell like you're in pain," the eldest witcher said finally, holding Julian with that even, steady gaze.

" _Well_ ," Julian started to say, searching for an excuse for that response, trying to process that the witcher had just said he _smelled_ like he was in pain, which didn't make sense, when the old witcher's hand snapped out and wrapped around his forearm, pulling him in close and pushing up his sleeve before he could do anything but let out a startled squeak.

Were all witchers so fast? And unaccustomed to _asking_ to touch a person?

"Clench your fist, boy," the witcher said, and Julian found himself doing so before he could really think about it. He couldn't close his fist completely, and certainly not tightly, but he was able to _do_ it, at least. "And flex your wrist, up and down, side to side." Julian did that as well, hissing softly when it hurt, and not pushing himself further than he could go without pushing from discomfort to shooting pains.

The witcher didn't say anything, just grunted and let Julian have his arm back.

"Satisfied your curiosity, then?" he asked, trying to play it off as a bit of a joke but unable to quite do so. 

"It's badly bruised," the witcher replied, his tone confident and firm. "Possibly still recovering from a recent fracture, but injured recently. _Very_ recently. You should wrap it to help stabilize it and reduce the swelling."

"I..." Julian blinked back unexpected tears that had welled up quite against his will. This witcher, this supposed mad rabid beast who wasn't a man, who had been _given_ to Julian like some sort of object, who clearly was doing what little he could to protect the younger witchers with him and likely felt deeply helpless in how little he was able to do that, had shown more care for Julian's well-being in the past minute and a half than his own father had in all eighteen years of his life.

"You really meant it, didn't you, lad?" the witcher grunts, holding his gaze with yellow eyes that had more depth of care to them, even if it wasn't really for Julian, than he'd ever seen in anyone looking at him.

"Which part?" Julian asked, mortified that his voice trembled slightly.

"That you'd planned to set us free, let us escape."

"Oh," Julian breathed. "Well, yes." He looked between the four of them, the three younger witchers seemed to be trying to come to individual conclusions about him, judging by how closely they were watching him. This close, even in the dim light, he could see that all of their eyes were yellow, but different shades. The eldest's was faded almost to a light brown, the defiant one seemed to almost look greenish (though Julian couldn't be sure that was right, in the low light), the scarred one had a rich amber tone to his, and the last, the one that Szymon had described as a wolf... his looked like molten gold as Julian met his gaze, and the intensity of it made his heart skip just a bit.

He couldn't help noticing that they were all exceedingly attractive, now that he wasn't performing for the court, and he ducked his head slightly, hoping that they couldn't smell arousal like they could apparently smell poison and pain.

"You're a strange one," the eldest said finally, drawing Julian's attention back to him. "You don't fear us."

"I..." Julian started, trying to come up with some explanation for _why_ he didn't fear them, and unable to come up with anything definitive. "No," he said finally, "I don't. I'm not sure why, but... I looked in your eyes, all of you, and I knew you wouldn't hurt me unless I'd done something to deserve it."

There was a low rumble that seemed to come from all of them, and the younger three shifted slightly, all glancing back at their leader. The head of their pack, in a way, Julian thought. Poetic, at least if they _were_ a pack. And useful for their survival, supporting each other and answering to the most level-headed and experienced among them.

"I am Vesemir," the eldest - _Vesemir_ \- said after a moment. "The pups are Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt." he nodded to the defiant one, the scarred one, and the wolf in turn.

"I'm Julian," he said in response, then grimaced. "Um. But I suppose you already know that. Sorry. It's nice to meet you properly?" The younger witchers didn't respond, but they seemed less _actively_ hostile. The w— _Geralt_ even seemed to be looking at him with curiosity now. 

"Do you know the shape of our binding," Vesemir asked, "and the meaning of that medallion you wear?"

"I don't," Julian admitted, and looked down properly at the pendant - or, _medallion_ , perhaps, as Vesemir said - for the first time. It was a flat disk, possibly silver, with a carving of a snarling wolf on the face of it. "It means something to you, though, doesn't it?" he ventured, grasping it in his hand and looking up at them.

"It was mine," Geralt rumbled, his voice still barely audible and his eyes locked on the floor. "I was the last captured."

Julian frowned slightly, and looked back to Vesemir for clarification.

"Witchers came from different schools," Vesemir said, his tone slipping into one that Julian recognized from his tutors. "Kaer Morhen was in the Blue Mountains on the eastern edge of Kaedwen. Home of the School of the Wolf." His expression grew distant, the way Julian remembered his grandfather in his last days, when he lived more in the past than the present. "Before the witchers were hunted nearly to extinction, we wore medallions to let people know what we were, that we could help if they were beset by monsters, and to warn us of magic in our presence, as most monsters were. Each school had their own design."

Julian looked down again at the medallion, aghast. Szymon - or at least whoever had "tamed" these witchers for Szymon - had taken the medallion from the last free Wolf of Kaer Morhen and turned it into a tool to control them. He wanted to rip it off himself and push it into Geralt's hands, to never think about having this sort of power over anyone, let alone these men who had done nothing but defend humans and _exist_ , and had been enslaved and tortured for it.

He couldn't, of course, if he wanted to maintain the illusion of control, but oh how he wished he could.

"How do I break it?" Julian asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He looked up, eyes wide and desperate, and held the medallion out from his chest, towards Vesemir. "How do I stop it from _controlling_ you?"

"It doesn't control us, exactly," Eskel said quietly. "It simply allows the bearer to punish us for disobedience."

"Which is why the fuckhead who brought us here had us chained," Lambert said with a snort, and Julian couldn't quite bite back a smile at his dismissive and condescending tone. While his voice was smoother and higher than Julian would've expected, the _tone_ fit perfectly with the man he'd first seen, defiantly staring down the nobility who dared to stare at him. "He knew there was a chance we'd try to fight through it just for a shot at him."

"How?" Julian asked, suddenly concerned. "Is it just... if I'm displeased you're in pain? Because I'd rather not accidentally do that just because I was having a _mood_."

"Nothing so vague, lad," Vesemir reassures him, and there was the slightest upward curl of his lips as he said it. "We're collared." He tugged aside the collar of his shirt, under his armor, revealing a plain metal band around his neck. "Can cause pain or strangle us, depending on the whims of the wielder of that medallion."

Julian's chest tightened. That was unimaginably cruel, in his opinion, and he couldn't help but feel helpless in the face of this horrid magic that made them suffer.

"Can they be removed?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, desperate for some sort of good news.

All four of the witchers looked at him with expressions of disbelief, ranging from bitter and closed off on Lambert's end, to openly hopeful but trying to stay guarded on Geralt's. Julian smiled faintly at Geralt as soon as he caught sight of that expression, which seemed to fluster him.

"Far as I can tell," Vesemir said eventually, "they can be removed at request of the master of the medallion."

"Hmm," Julian hummed softly. "Right. Okay, then, I—" he stepped forward toward Vesemir, then hesitated. "Sorry. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Vesemir replied, his eyes sharp but seeming to hold a hint of amusement. 

Julian stepped into his space, then, noting in the back of his mind how even the shortest of these men was slightly taller than he was, and significantly broader. A thought to save for another time, clearly. He reached up to the thin band of metal around Vesemir's neck and, trying to be as commanding as possible, simply ordered, "Open."

The collar shifted, seeming to develop a latch and hinge, allowing Julian to pull the ends apart and remove it from Vesemir's neck. Julian grinned widely, delighted that, at the very least, he could free his— _the_ witchers (not his, they belonged only to themselves) from the actual literal control he had over them through this enchantment. He hoped they would stay with him for now, in Kerack, if only to ensure their safety, but he was willing to risk them disappearing in the night if it meant he could keep them safe, especially should his father decide he would take this gift from him because he _had use_ of "mad rabid beasts" or some nonsense.

Julian handed the collar to Vesemir, and moved on to Lambert, who jerked back instinctively but stilled almost immediately.

"Get it over with," he growled at Julian, and within seconds Julian pushed the collar into Lambert's hands. He did the same for Eskel and Geralt, then stepped back from the four of them. They all seemed uncertain whether they could actually affect the collars, but Lambert snarled and snapped his in half, letting off a little spark that looked like broken magic alongside the broken metal. The other three followed suit before the halves of Lambert's collar had hit the ground.

"Well, those should be tucked somewhere unlikely to draw attention," Julian said brightly, and collected the pieces, even as it put him in a vulnerable position at the witchers' feet, which seemed to shock the younger three.

Vesemir simply watched him steadily, as if he'd seen the shape of the young prince and was simply watching him do what was expected. It almost made Julian feel ashamed of how little there was for the old witcher to see.

"Well, there's... the food's still good, as I said," Julian said, holding the curves of metal in his hand, thinking of the best place to secret them away until he could dispose of them. "And I have private baths, with water that pipes in directly. If you'd like to bathe."

Lambert immediately took off for the baths, Eskel close on his tail, and Vesemir glanced from them to Julian to Geralt before gravitating toward the tray of food and wine.

Geralt, however, simply hovered over Julian's shoulder. When Julian turned to ask him if he needed anything, he was met by a deep frown creasing Geralt's forehead.

"Is... do you need something else?" Julian asked carefully.

"Your wrist," Geralt rumbled. "It needs wrapped."

"Oh," Julian said, startled. "I. I suppose so, yes. I'll find a bandage in the morning."

Geralt grunted and grabbed Julian's uninjured wrist, tugging him over to the sofa and pushing him down before sitting next to him and turning his injured wrist over in his hands, shockingly gentle for all that they were sword-calloused.

"Really, it's fine," Julian said quietly. "I've managed before."

Geralt looked up, frown still in place, eyes searching Julian's face for some answer that he didn't seem to find.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, low enough that Julian thought maybe no one else but the two of them could hear.

"Like I said," Julian offered with a wry smile, "my father knows me well."

The muscles in Geralt's jaw twitched slightly.

"It's fine," Julian repeated. "I've managed before. It's not as bad as it could've been."

Geralt's frown deepened, and he turned his gaze back to Julian's wrist. Julian would've asked if there was something wrong, except they were distracted by Lambert - apparently _not_ the first to the bath - dropping a pile of bath linens into Geralt's lap. He seemed tense as well, and didn't look at Julian before going back toward the bedroom and baths.

Geralt hummed to himself, and let Julian's wrist go long enough to rip a strip off the linens, then another for good measure, as if he'd _expected_ the other witcher to bring him supplies to use as makeshift bandages. Julian wondered, absently, if one of their mutations included the ability to speak to each other's minds, like sorcerers could.

"Should only need one," he murmured as he took Julian's hand back and started to carefully wrap his wrist. It was snug, but not enough to cut off circulation, and Geralt's hands were deft and easily tugged and tucked the bandage into place in a way that provided a mild amount of pressure to stabilize and press out the fluids causing swelling, without causing Julian's fingers to tingle.

"Oh," Julian said again, once the wrapping was done, flexing his fingers and finding that while it was still uncomfortable, it didn't hurt nearly as much as he'd expected. "I... thank you." He looked up at Geralt to find the witcher studiously avoiding his gaze. 

Perhaps it was hard to care, even in a small way like this, about someone outside of the other three wolves, when they'd been so mistreated. Julian couldn't blame him for not being comfortable giving even basic consideration to a bruised prince. 

"You should eat," Julian said after a moment, trying to lighten the mood as best he could when he was still trying to banish the ghost of Geralt's fingertips on his wrist out of his mind. "Before Lambert and Eskel come out and finish what Vesemir hasn't and leaves you without anything but the crusts and stems."

Geralt hummed again, and stood to join Vesemir at the tray of food. Julian made a mental note to ask for larger servings next time, as he could already tell the amount of food, while perfectly acceptable for four normal human men, would be not quite enough for these witchers.

He intended to stay awake long enough to offer them the clean clothes he'd had Ela find, and figure out bedding arrangements, if they would be comfortable in the spare room off the other side of his sitting room, but was asleep on the sofa before Lambert and Eskel had emerged from the bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> Please always feel free to hit me up to scream, sob, and chat! This fic is kind of sprawling for me, so I hope it all comes across well to you, too. :)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are the fuel that keeps this writing machine chugging along!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...It's been Friday for 15 minutes, so here is an update. :3

Julian woke the next morning in his bed, in his shirt and smallclothes, with Lambert sprawled across the foot of his bed. He, sleepily, thought to try to be quiet as he got up so as not to wake Lambert, but even without more than a slight shift in position as Julian tried to convince his body to move, Lambert seemed to rouse himself, and lifted his head quickly to peer at the bedroom door and then at Julian.

"You're awake," Lambert said, which Julian could only nod to.

"I think so, anyway," he answered with a sleepy smile. "Might doze back off if it's early enough no one's come to wake me."

Lambert didn't say anything for a long moment, just staring at Julian, but he nodded sharply just as his stillness started to become uncomfortable.

"Go on, then," he answered, and re-settled himself.

Julian wanted to ask why Lambert was there, or if he wanted to lay down somewhere more comfortable, but he got so little sleep these days, and the promise of more sleep was too tempting not to sink back into, and he drifted back into unconsciousness despite himself.

He woke again later and the angle of sun through his windows was completely wrong, too high to be right if he was still in bed, and Lambert wasn't at the foot of his bed any longer. His wrist still hurt, but less than he was used to from such an incident, and he noticed that his wrist seemed to be wrapped in cloth of a different color than the bath linens Geralt had used last night.

Something to think about, after he sorted out what was going on with his _time_ , which had apparently gone all off-kilter.

He stumbled out to the sitting room and found the four witchers sitting near the table their supper had been laid out on, close to the door to the hallway. There was a new tray on the table, with the remnants of what appeared to be breakfast scattered across it.

"Ah, you're awake," Vesemir said. "Sleep well?"

"Um," Julian said, frowning in muddled, only half-awake confusion. "I think so? It seems... late."

"Some prissy courtier came by to wake you up not long after sunrise," Lambert said, his lip curling. "Told him to fuck off and let you rest."

"Oh gods," Julian muttered, and buried his face in his hand, being gentle to his injured wrist even if it was less painful than he'd expected. "I... _thank_ you, I really do appreciate it, but you can't— I need to be out there, it's..." he trailed off, looking from one to the other of them, and found four completely unrepentant faces staring back. "...You don't care, do you," he asked with a reluctant, wry smile.

"Not particularly," Eskel said, and pushed a plate of set-aside breakfast food over to the edge of the table for Julian to take.

No eggs, but a few pastries, a couple of sausages, and some bacon. All of it had gone cold, but it was still good, and Julian tucked in with more enthusiasm than he expected. Though in retrospect, he barely had supper the night before, and judging by the angle of the light coming through the windows it was probably closer to midday than sunrise. He was allowed to be a bit starving.

Once the first of the food hit his stomach properly, he slowed down, a little embarrassed despite himself at his initial lack of manners, despite the fact that he _knew_ the wolves didn't care.

"Well, I... suppose we have a lot to work out properly, then," he said eventually. "Since you haven't snuck off in the night. Which I wouldn't have blamed you for, granted. I get the feeling that my father's threat of recapturing you would be pretty useless against you if you were forewarned." Julian smiled faintly, trying not to wonder what his punishment would've been had they left and Tomasz had been unable to recapture them.

"We considered it," Vesemir said, and Julian was both surprised by and grateful for his honesty, even if it made his heart skip a bit with fear. They had considered it and chosen not to. He didn't have to worry.

All four pairs of those yellow eyes - slit-pupiled, Julian could see now that they weren't dilated for the dim light of last night - were trained on him with surprising attentiveness.

"We decided against it," Vesemir continued. "If the king was willing to do _that_ ," he gestured to Julian's wrist, and the prince flushed and dropped his hand into his lap, "simply to order you not to free us, we were sure that our disappearance and lack of recapture would end badly for you."

Julian frowned. "I'm not sure I understand," he said slowly, trying not to let the warm blossom of hope for safety and maybe even eventual _escape_ grow too large.

"You were kind to us," Geralt said, his voice soft and low, and oh did Julian want to hear him speak forever. "Treated us like people. Apologized for being unable to free us without invoking Tomasz's anger, but still removed the only things keeping us here. You felt safe enough to fall asleep in a room with us, with no guards to protect you."

"Anybody who's got any power here seems to not give a shit about you," Lambert added. "You removed the 'enchantment' that forced us to obey. Least we can do is keep you safe 'til you can take over for that motherfucker who thought nearly breaking your wrist was a reasonable response to you being a kind fucking person."

Julian grimaced, glanced up at Geralt ruefully. "You told them?" He wasn't angry, really, just a little regretful that he'd said anything.

"He didn't have to," Eskel said, his lips pressed together unhappily. "We all heard."

Julian's eyebrows shot up. Eskel and Lambert had been two rooms away, and they'd heard his quiet admission of... that must have been why Lambert had appeared so suddenly with the linens, and looked so unhappy when he did.

He looked to each of their faces, and while they were all closed off and hard to read, he could see a simmering anger in each of them that hadn't been there before. Anger at his father, for hurting _him_ for wanting to treat them like people. No one had ever really given that much of a shit about how he was treated, except a few older servants who could do basically nothing to improve things, and his sister Mathilde, who could do even less.

"Well," he said finally, trying to keep the waver of emotion out of his voice. "I'll need to know what you can do, and then we can make a plan for how we're going to do this."

* * *

It turned out that the Wolves of Kaer Morhen (as Julian took quickly to calling them in his head, because it sounded heroic and noble, like them) intended to essentially act as Julian's personal bodyguards. They set up easily-collapsible cots both in Julian's bedroom and the sitting room, where whoever was keeping watch would be able to sleep or meditate at night, while the other two shared the bed in the guest chambers.

"Always have one of us in the room with you," Vesemir told Julian seriously while the other three were arguing where to put the weapon and armor racks that Julian had ordered brought up for them. "Or at least outside the entrance, but we'd prefer to be able to see you if possible."

"You really don't have to go to all this trouble," Julian insisted, even as he failed to fully suppress a smile when Geralt 'accidentally' dropped the corner of a weapon rack on Lambert's foot, prompting fierce cursing in at least four languages.

"No, we don't," Vesemir agreed. "But you seem to care about my pups, and we have no love of men who use their power to hurt the people they have power over." His fingers brushed Julian's wrist, so lightly and briefly it could've been incidental, unintentional, but Julian knew it wasn't.

They were protecting him from his _father_.

"Oh," he said softly, and that warmth in his chest that they had lit the kindling of grew a little hotter. "I... well. Of course. Though I'd appreciate if that didn't extend to my _baths_ , for example."

Vesemir chuckled, and somehow drawing that out of the old witcher made Julian flush faintly with pride. "I think we can work with that."

Those first couple of days, the witchers kept Julian largely in his rooms, allowing servants with food or furniture and turning away anyone who sought to speak to Julian or take him elsewhere. Julian sent a written message to his father and the head of the household claiming it was at his order as he accustomed himself to the witchers and the power to command he had over them, and that it would be best if he were not disturbed except with requested items until such time that he felt satisfied in the extent of his control over them. He'd made a disgusted face as he signed and sealed the messages, which had amused Eskel at the very least.

"You look like you've smelled something rotting," he said with a small smile.

"I _feel_ like I stuck my _hand_ in something rotting, emotionally," Julian shot back. "Ugh. Someone pull the cord so I can give these to Ela and be done with it for now."

The third day was for learning the lay of the land, according to Geralt, which meant prowling the palace and the grounds with Julian in tow so they wouldn't be stopped or harassed.

"We do need to start training again," Eskel commented softly when the five of them stopped to survey the training yards where some of the off-duty guards were sparring. Their weapons were, apparently, also now Julian's property, and had been left with the steward after the banquet. They were currently still in Julian's rooms, despite their clear displeasure at being left unarmed, but it was best to get people used to seeing them in the palace _slowly_.

"Without letting them see how good we are?" Lambert asked with a snort. "Good luck with that."

"He's right," Vesemir said, cutting off both Eskel and Geralt as they took breaths to start arguing with Lambert. "We need somewhere more private." He looked at Julian. "Anywhere in that palace of yours we could repurpose?"

Julian thought about the rooms on his wing of the palace, since getting too close to his father's rooms would be a bad idea, to say the least. Most of them are pretty small, or actively used, but...

"I can think of one place," he said. "We'll see if it works after we've finished out here."

He took them to the music room last. It was a large room with a high ceiling, the shape of it specially crafted to resonate with beautiful acoustics that - through magic or architecture, no one alive could remember - barely whispered outside the doors. The floors had no rugs, there were a few chairs and small couches scattered throughout, and the instruments...

_Oh_ the instruments. Some antique, some newer, all works of art in their own right. A harpsichord, harps of various sizes, viols and violins and flutes and a very lovely dulcimer, and, what would be the most worn if she ever bothered to show her age, a beautiful elven-crafted lute.

Julian had loved the music room since he'd first found it trying to hide from his nursemaid when he was four years old. It was the one thing his mother had put her foot down on despite his father's disdain - Julian had grown up learning music. His rooms were selected for him once he moved out of the nursery specifically for their closeness to the music room, or so the servants had told him at the time. He still wasn't sure about that, but no matter how little his mother stood up for him in other ways, especially these days, she had managed to convince Tomasz that it was worth it to allow Julian to learn and play and sing, and he would always be grateful to her for it.

"We'd have to move most of the furniture out, of course," he said as he strode in with them behind him, folding his hands behind him so they didn't flutter nervously. "But this room is honestly far more spacious than it needs to be, considering it's never used for salons or anything so social anymore."

He hesitated and turned back to them, eyes wide and refusing to give in to the urge to bite his lip. "Do... do you like it?" Even if they wouldn't use this room for its intended purpose and wouldn't appreciate the beautiful instruments he'd grown up loving, he somehow wanted them to approve of the space he'd thought of for them.

This room was almost more of a reflection of who he was than his own rooms were.

He wanted them to approve of _him_. No, approval wasn't the right response, especially as it seemed they already approved of him. It was just... Julian was showing them a part of himself, one that wasn't something he'd suffered at the king's hands.

He wanted them to like what they saw.

Lambert was the first of them to step further in than just inside the doorway. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose before turning back to the other three witchers and raising an eyebrow.

They were actually having a _discussion_ , Jaskier realized when he saw Eskel raise one eyebrow at Lambert, then smile faintly at Geralt in response to a little shrug. He tried to smother the little hopeful voice at the back of his head with harsh reality. They were here until they got bored or were needed elsewhere or could theoretically take their keep back from that horrific King Szymon, even if they'd insinuated they'd stay until his father died and Julian took the throne. He wouldn't have _time_ to learn how to read them well enough to participate in these little silent conversations.

Except, that little voice said as he watched all three of them sneak a glance at Vesemir who nodded minutely, that they had already chosen to protect him from his father. Were apparently legitimately disturbed by what little they knew of his father's treatment of him. He couldn't imagine any of them abandoning him here, essentially helpless without them, after seeing that simmering rage in their eyes.

"Yeah, this'll work," Lambert announced for everyone. "Plenty of wall space, just gotta push everything up against the sides." He proceeded to show his plan by shoving the nearest couch back to the edge of the room, against the wall, and then - carefully, bless him - lifted a large floor harp to set it next to the couch, out of the way.

"We'll have to trade off who trains," Eskel commented as he and Geralt started working to similarly deal with the other furniture and instruments. "Only enough room for two to spar."

"We'll make due," Vesemir said firmly, and sat on the first couch Lambert had moved, surveying the room and his pups with a critical eye. "This will work nicely, Julian, thank you."

"Well, it was this or the throne room," Julian said lightly, grimacing as the witchers moved the various instruments in slightly less-than-ideal grips, even if he knew they'd be too careful to properly damage them. "And I rather thought my father would take _issue_ with that."

"Hey, a little desk!" Lambert crowed delightedly upon finding a small writing desk tucked out of the way behind the largest (and best-cushioned) sofa on the far side or the room. "You need to be able to work on shit, right?" he asked, looking up at Julian. "You can bring it in here and that way we can train _and_ keep an eye on you!"

He wasn't _quite_ grinning, but Julian could tell he was looking to Vesemir for some kind of approval, that he'd done well, made his pack leader proud maybe. Except he wasn't actually looking at Vesemir, he was looking at _Julian_.

"Ah," Julian said, trying to get himself pulled back together. "You're right, I could see to any reading or correspondence I need to address from here," he agreed, and smiled, trying to make sure it looked at least a _little_ pleased. And it wasn't that he was _displeased_ , quite the opposite, he just hadn't expected any of them to care about his approval, rather than him simply trying to get them to approve of himself.

"That'll help," Geralt agreed from where he was, slowly and carefully, moving the chair that had the elven lute propped in its seat. "Don't have to make anyone skip training to keep an eye on you."

"I don't suppose it'll do any good to point out that I'm in a palace full of guards and don't necessarily need to be guarded at all times, despite your plans?" Julian asked, smiling fondly.

"No," Geralt said simply, and returned to helping the other two finish clearing the center of the room. Julian was relatively certain he imagined the witcher's fingers lingered against the lute for a moment longer than necessary.

"Well, I suppose I'll just be relegated to the _tragic_ fate of being followed constantly by the four most magnificent men I've had the pleasure of meeting," Julian declared brightly. The protestation of their plan was, honestly, more out of a sense that he should give them the _option_ of being less attentive than any desire for them to do so. Only three days into knowing them, he knew he trusted them with his life, and they made him feel _safe_.

It had been a very long time since he'd felt like that.

* * *

It was five days after the banquet that Julian finally returned to his studies and duties, his wolves at his side.

Julian had, though he'd never been to a proper university, the equivalent of a standard education as a master of the seven liberal arts, but as the future king he was expected to be further educated in some areas. Law and politics and diplomacy were the main ones, and his law tutor was quite exasperated with him after nearly a week away, as he'd expected. His political and diplomatic tutor was somewhat more understanding, but Julian had the distinct impression that was simply the man's way of putting his diplomatic knowledge to use.

He rarely took lunch, knowing that early afternoon was when he was usually summoned to sit in with his father's council and listen so he would be aware of the state of the kingdom, and the threat of any time spent around his father was rarely conducive to things like _eating_. However today, Julian had a roll and cheese with a small glass of juice, after Vesemir gave him a scathing look on his insistence that he didn't need lunch.

"You need food to keep up your strength," Vesemir said firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument, that Julian had seen work equally well on the other three witchers, and that was that.

They returned to Julian's rooms so that Lambert and Vesemir could be traded for Eskel and Geralt in the afternoon, and they waited to see if King Tomasz would summon Julian for the day.

Less than twenty minutes had passed before he did. The unfamiliar but pleasant feeling of safety and contentment fled, replaced by mounting anxiety that increased with every step he took away from his rooms

"We won't leave you," Eskel murmured under his breath as the witchers flanked Julian on his way to his father's private study and the connected council chambers. "You'll be perfectly safe."

Julian didn't laugh, even though the idea of being perfectly safe in his father's presence was laughably unrealistic. He was rather sure that he never had been, even if he'd been shielded from the worst of his father's cruelty for a time when he was young, and his father thought he could still be molded into the heir he _wanted_.

Still. He thought maybe, with the witchers guarding him, he had a chance at escaping any significant punishment for now.

He paused outside the door to his father's study and let out a shaky breath before turning to look up at Geralt.

"Well," Julian asked with a faint, half-hearted smile, "how do I look?"

Geralt actually seemed to consider the question seriously, which really Julian should have expected in retrospect. His golden-yellow eyes swept consideringly down Julian's body and back up to his face, and made the prince shiver slightly with some uncertain ghost of a feeling he couldn't identify.

"Afraid," Geralt answered finally, his rough voice soft and almost too low to hear. "But brave."

Julian wanted to answer, even to thank Geralt for his response, but he felt as though all the air was gone from the hallway, leaving him unable to look away from Geralt's eyes.

Then, just as suddenly as the air had left, it rushed back in when Eskel's hand dropped on Julian's shoulder.

"It's time," Eskel said. "We'll be here."

"Right," Julian said. He cleared his throat, straightened his doublet, and knocked sharply on his father's door.

"Enter," came Tomasz's muffled voice from within.

Eskel's hand beat Julian's to the handle, and Geralt smoothly stepped into the room ahead of him, appearing to skim for potential threats, then stepped aside just enough that Julian wouldn't have to walk _around_ him to walk toward his father's desk. Eskel closed the door and stood just inside it, blocking the doorway handily. As Julian approached Tomasz's desk, Geralt stayed at his shoulder, so close Julian could almost imagine he felt the body heat of the witcher standing so close to him.

Tomasz curled a lip at the sight of the witchers.

"When I told you to keep them, I didn't mean quite so _literally_ , Julian," he said. "Are you so debased as to take four _creatures_ to your bed?"

Julian heard the creak of leather as Geralt tightened his fist, but neither witcher said a word. They knew well the importance of remaining well-behaved outside Julian's rooms or the music-room-turned-impromptu-salle, lest anyone realize they were not so much under Julian's control as they pretended.

"They're _personal guards_ , father," Julian said, and tried to keep his weary irritation out of his voice. "Where _else_ would you have me put them?"

"The barracks if you must," Tomasz said, returning to whatever note he was penning. "Though the kennels would be preferable, if they could be socialized to leave the dogs be. That would be more fitting for them, don't you think?"

"Yes, that's certainly the way to treat the highly skilled warriors who are bound to protect and serve me, by putting them in the _kennels_ , where they're nowhere near me," Julian found himself spitting with a mocking laugh.

Tomasz put down his quill and looked up at Julian slowly. Julian's breath caught in his throat at the banked rage in his father's eyes, ready to burst to flame with the slightest bit of kindling.

"And what need have you of personal guards in your home, where the royal guard protects us all?" Tomasz asked quietly, his voice too calm and even to be trusted, even if the rest of the world might.

Julian knew what his answer was supposed to be. _None at all, Father, my deepest apologies for not trusting your guard to protect me._ And then he would order his witchers to retire to the barracks, where the guard and knights would be ordered to slit their throats in the night. Julian wondered in the back of his mind if he'd be punished after his wolves had bled out, or if Tomasz would have them kept just alive enough for Julian to see them die first.

But no. No, he would not send them away, no he would _not_ apologize for feeling unsafe in this place, where the man who held all the power had used it to cultivate the silence that surrounded the often none-too-secretive punishments he laid upon his son.

_We won't leave you,_ Eskel had said. _We have no love of men who use their power to hurt,_ Vesemir had told him.

_Afraid, but brave,_ Geralt had murmured.

"I'm afraid there are threats that even the palace guard are unable to protect me from, in this place," Julian said quietly, holding his father's gaze only by the grace of the press of Eskel's gaze on his back, keeping him steady.

The embers in Tomasz's eyes flared into a rage, and he flew to his feet, the ornate chair falling back as he stood. "Why you—"

He got no further. Fast enough that Julian had nearly missed the movement at all, Geralt had placed himself between Julian and Tomasz with a snarl, and now stared Tomasz down, teeth bared, a very literal growl rumbling in his chest.

Julian couldn't think, couldn't _move_. He'd all but told his father that he was keeping the witchers as protection against _him_ , he was going to get whipped within an inch of his life if he was lucky, he—

A hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle, startles him into breathing and thinking again. Eskel. Eskel is behind him, Geralt is between him and his father, and they would keep him safe. He was still afraid. But he could continue to be brave.

He took a deep breath, not risking looking back at Eskel, and put a hand lightly on Geralt's shoulder.

"Stand down, wolf," he said, as close as he could stomach to the way he'd speak to a guard dog. A beloved guard dog, perhaps, but a dog nonetheless. In front of his father, at least, that was a necessary lie.

Geralt's soft rumbling growl faded, and he stepped to the side, but not back, hovering ready to pull Julian out of the way in the space of a breath if necessary.

Julian was surprised, when he turned back to his father, to find that Tomasz looked frightened. Not at Geralt, which Julian had expected, perhaps unable or unwilling to fully look away from him, but of _Julian_. He hadn't thought Julian would fight back, even with four witchers at his command. He hadn't expected Julian to not be cowed and submissive when he wasn't at risk.

Julian almost laughed from the sheer startling wave of satisfaction it gave him, to know that for once, _Tomasz_ was the one who was frightened.

"I think you'll find I won't be putting up with that sort of thing anymore, _Father_ ," Julian said, his voice steady and cold. "No more bruises. No more subtly broken bones. No more _punishments_. I am the crown prince of Kerack and the master of the last Wolves of Kaer Morhen. And as long as you keep your hands to yourself and not laid on anyone else, you won't have to discover how _well_ I've mastered them."

Tomasz sputtered, but Julian simply stared down at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked to the door, where Eskel had resumed his guard at some point and now opened the door ahead of him.

"I'll resume attending council meetings tomorrow," he said without turning as he left, Geralt and Eskel on his heels.

He made it only down the hall and around the corner before his confident stride faltered and the adrenaline-fueled confidence fled, leaving him trembling and attempting not to collapse. He reached out blindly to try to find a wall or a side table, or _something_ that he could use to keep himself upright, and found Geralt's bicep instead.

_Well,_ he thought with a slightly hysterical giggle, _at least I know it's sturdy._

"Julian?" Geralt asked, his voice so gentle, he was always so _gentle_ when he spoke to Julian, it was enough to make a man's head spin.

"Did that really just happen?" Julian asked breathlessly, still slightly giddy from it all. "Did I really _say_ all that?"

"It did and you did," Eskel verified. "It was pretty impressive, honestly."

"Oh, that's good," Julian said, noting absently how the corners of his vision seemed to be darkening. "Not to sound like some fine lady with the vapors," he added calmly, "but I rather think I might faint now."

The last thing he remembered was strong arms behind his back and under his knees as his body went limp and his vision went black.

* * *

Julian woke again to warmth and pressure, and the soft sound of people speaking while trying to stay quiet. It took him a moment to figure out exactly what was happening, until he felt more than heard the rumble of Geralt's voice in his ear.

"You awake now, pup?" Vesemir's voice came from slightly further away, and Julian stirred slightly and opened his eyes.

No, he had not imagined it - he was currently cradled gently against Geralt's chest, as the witcher sat on the sofa in Julian's sitting room. It was a bit mortifying, but...

Well. He can't remember the last time he had any significant affectionate physical contact, and Geralt's embrace was warm and gentle. He could be forgiven for staying in Geralt's lap a little longer than he should, even if it was taking advantage.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You passed out after we left the king's office," Eskel said. "Probably a result of the adrenaline dropping off once you were out of the room."

"Oh," Julian said, rubbed his hand over his face. He should sit up and remove himself from Geralt's arms. "Thank you for getting me back in one piece, then."

"It was nothing," Geralt said. "He deserved that response to his cowardice."

Julian's chest felt like it was trying to burst and tighten all at once, touched and honored by the support and kind words these Wolves kept giving him. It was enough to press him into sitting up and sliding off Geralt's lap onto the couch next to him. He certainly imagined Geralt's arms tightening just slightly as he did so.

"He probably deserved whatever _you_ were ready to do to him," Julian admitted. "But the reality is that it would get all four of you _and_ probably me executed for treason if I'd let you."

"Well, judging by what Eskel and Geralt were able to tell us in the last few minutes, you carried yourself admirably," Vesemir said, and Julian let out a little sigh of relief that he hadn't been unconscious for _too_ long, at least.

"It felt good," Julian admitted with a faint smile. "I'll be terrified for my life and yours for the foreseeable future, but it felt _very_ good."

"Don't you worry about us," Lambert drawled from where he was sprawled across a chair rather than sitting in it. "We'll be fine. And if we're fine, you're fine, got it?"

Julian laughed despite himself. "Got it," he agreed. "I'll have to convince my fight or flight reflex of that, but it's good to be reassured."

Vesemir shifted the course of the conversation by asking Geralt something about the guard presence he and Eskel had seen on their way to and from the king's offices, and Julian allowed himself to tune out the words and just rest his mind in the growing familiarity of the Wolves' voices going back and forth. He didn't particularly want to _sleep_ , but he could feel exhaustion threatening to wash over him again despite his opinions on the matter.

"Do you want to lay down in your bed?" Geralt rumbled softly while Lambert and Eskel disagreed emphatically on some small detail of their response plans, and Julian shook his head.

"No, I'd never wake up if I did," he replied quietly.

Geralt hummed thoughtfully, then lifted an arm to tug Julian until he tipped into Geralt's side, and the witcher wrapped his arm around Julian's shoulders. Julian let out a deep sigh and all but melted into Geralt's side, his head resting on the side of Geralt's chest, and Geralt patted his arm lightly before rejoining the discussion.

Julian dozed off, content and safe, to the sound of his Wolves talking and the faint scent of leather and sweat on Geralt's shirt.

* * *

Weeks passed without any further incidents of note. Julian's first council meeting with Vesemir and Geralt in tow was a bit uncomfortable in that no one seemed to be able to focus on what they were meant to discuss, distracted by the looming figures that seemed to orbit their prince, but after a few days, the council largely acclimated, aside from the king.

Tomasz remained bitter and terrified of Julian, which Julian took advantage of gladly, pressing for more compassionate or humanitarian actions that his father would've shot down immediately prior to their face-off in his office. They didn't always pass, as _all_ of the council members were selfish men who largely only cared about power, but at least Julian got _more_ through than he would have otherwise.

When he wasn't being tutored or in council meetings, he largely was sitting at his little desk in the music room salle going through letters, reports that he was responsible for, or assignments for his tutors, watching the witchers train. They did a fair amount every day, and swore to him they were used to it.

"If we were on the Path still, we wouldn't do so much," Eskel explained. "Because the travel and the contracts would mostly keep us sharp. But since we're not on the Path, it's best to train as much as we can."

The first time he picked up the lute and started to play while they trained, all of them stopped to watch him, until he was flushed from the attention. There was no reaction when he finished the little practice tune.

“Well, I didn’t think I was _that_ out of practice,” he joked nervously. If they didn’t enjoy his playing, he’d... well, he’d survive, but it would probably cut into his already-limited time to indulge in his favorite activity.

“That sounded _amazing_ ,” Lambert declared, almost as if he was daring one of the other wolves to argue with him, and stalked over to all but fling himself to the floor next to Julian’s legs. “Play more,” he demanded. Julian laughed.

“Um, all right. Any requests?”

“Do you sing?” Eskel asked, sitting on the little couch next to Julian. Geralt flopped on the floor, leaning against Eskel’s legs and peering up at Julian curiously.

“I do, yes,” Julian nodded. 

“Do you know Lady Greenfinch?” Eskel asked hopefully. It was a sad little song, and older than Julian was by a fair margin, but his mother had enjoyed it and taught it to him when he was little.

“I do indeed,” Julian confirmed, and launched into the song with enthusiasm, even if he did have to stop to remind himself of a couple of the chords. And after that, into another love song, and then an adventure ballad, until his fingers were sore and he had to laughingly beg off and send the boys back to their training, where Vesemir was watching indulgently from across the room.

“I’d wondered about the callouses,” Geralt said thoughtfully as he stood. “Thanks.”

Music joined their routine, brightening the salle when Julian didn’t have other responsibilities, taking requests as the witchers sparred, underscoring Vesemir’s critiques and corrections. In the evenings, they'd sprawl across the furniture or rugs in front of the fireplace in his sitting room, and they'd tell him stories of hunts long past, or Julian would tell them the stories he'd heard of various beasts and monsters and ask how accurate they were. Every so often, they'd indulge him and listen to him read poetry to them, though they branched out to various novels and historical texts after a while.

The witchers put on a startling amount of weight, once Julian started feeding them. None of them got _fat_ , certainly, but they went from lean and distinctly muscled to having a solid layer of fat across their bodies in a way that spoke of a healthy, well-treated warrior. It was a vast improvement, in Julian's mind.

All in all, for those first few months, everything was going well.

Julian really should've known better than to think it would continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun DUUUUUUN~! Sorry about the cliffhanger - originally this was supposed to be a one-shot, and this was a very good place for a chapter break when I ended up having to break it up. :3
> 
> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> Comments are mana from heaven and kudos are kisses from fairies, and I love them all!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sense of time is so skewed I nearly forgot it was Friday! Enjoy today's update, and the (partial) conclusion of last week's cliffhanger
> 
> I promise there is a reason there is no MCD tag. I know I've got some followers who are sensitive to that. There is no MCD in this fic.

Julian woke one night to a hand over his mouth as he was dragged out of bed, and he started struggling immediately. He could see a dark shape in the moonlight leaning over Lambert in his cot near the door, and the last thing he saw before a bag was pulled over his head was a knife cutting across Lambert's throat.

Jaskier screamed in distress, only to have a hand clapped over his mouth again, pressing the rough cloth against his skin.

"Hush up or we'll do it to the rest of your fuckin freaks, too," a harsh voice whispered in his ear. "They ain't gonna be following us any time soon either way, so you'd best not fight or you'll find yourself _begging_ us to slit your throat so quick and easy."

They tied something around the sack to gag him, then dragged him out his window, and Julian was frozen with grief.

Lambert should've woken up. Geralt, sleeping on the cot in the sitting room, should've woken up. Something had been done to them to keep them asleep, and Julian didn't know what or how, and now Lambert was dead because of him. Lambert was dead and he was going to die - either at the hands of these kidnappers or at the hands of his father after he had the other witchers executed for failing to protect their master. Without the witchers to protect him from his father, he wasn't sure he'd survive to take the throne.

But at the forefront of his mind, even as he was tied up and tossed into what felt like a wagon and driven hard down a bumpy road, remained the simple fact that _Lambert was dead_.

He had no sense of time, with the hood over his head. They rode until he was sore from the bumping of the wagon, and when they finally stopped they dragged him out of it and tossed him to the ground with raucous laughter. He should've been paying attention, he knew - trying to figure out who they were, what they wanted, if he could possibly get away from them.

He couldn't. All he could imagine were the other three Wolves waking and stumbling into the bedroom to find Julian gone and Lambert bled out and cold. The grief that would wash over them to have lost their youngest pup simply for being in the room with Julian when his kidnappers came.

"Oi, princeling!" A boot connected hard to Julian's ribs, and he groaned, curling his knees up in an attempt to protect himself from further kicks. "Yeah, not so tough without your freaks to protect you, eh?" Another kick connected with his back. His ribs moved in a way that suggested they weren't pleased with this turn of events. He hoped they wouldn't end up broken.

"Little lord's gonna regret throwin' his lot in with them, ain't he?" another voice asked, and the group laughed again - it sounded as though there were more than five of them, though Julian couldn't tell any more than that.

Another kick connected, with a snap and a lance of pain through his torso that Julian could only assume meant at least one broken rib. He cried out through the gag, trying to stop himself from crying audibly, wanting to give them as little satisfaction as possible.

The man standing over him laughed, a sharp cruel laugh, and took a breath to either kick Julian again or threaten him with further harm. Whatever he intended to do never came to pass, though, as his breath ended with a gurgle and he hit the ground with a thump, landing partially on Julian and making his ribs shift painfully. There were shouts of alarm from the other men who'd captured him, the sound of swords cutting through flesh, and then silence but for the heavy breathing of one or two individuals and the pounding of Julian's heart in his ears.

And then suddenly there were hands on him, gently sitting him up, and Julian struggled until the words being spoken trickled through his panic and grief.

"Julian, breathe. It's Eskel, Julek, come on, take deep breaths. I'm just going to unbind you but I need you to calm down and not panic." He untied the gag first, then pulled the sack off of Julian's head, and Julian thought no sight had ever been so beautiful as the blood-streaked, scarred face of Eskel right in front of him, Geralt standing a few feet back in an apparent attempt not to crowd him.

"You with us?" Geralt asked softly, and Julian let out a sharp breath and nodded. Both witchers smiled, relieved, and Eskel moved around him to cut the rope binding his wrists while Geralt stepped closer to cut the rope around his ankles.

The relief of seeing them didn't last long, though, because it only took moments to remember the sight of one of the kidnappers slitting Lambert's throat. Julian's face crumpled, and he pulled in on himself as much as he could without the pain in his ribs getting too bad.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I don't... I don't know what..."

"Hey, hey, shh, you're alright," Eskel said, rubbing his back comfortingly. "You're alright, so _we're_ alright, okay?"

Julian frowned, confused and heartsick. "But... _Lambert_..."

"Lambert's fine," Geralt said quickly. "Take more than that to get rid of that stubborn prick."

"He's fine?" Julian whispered, looking to Eskel for confirmation. Eskel nodded.

"He'll have to take it easy for a few days, but he's alive." Eskel continued rubbing Julian's back, and Julian suddenly felt _exhausted_. "We need to get you back so he can be reassured that you are too, though, okay?" Julian nodded, and tried to push himself up, hissing as pain shot through his ribs.

Geralt gently scooped Julian up in his arms, which shifted his ribs painfully, but less so then trying to stand had.

"Where are you injured?" he asked.

"Just my ribs, I think," Julian said. "I'm bruised other places, but I think I've got a cracked rib or two mainly."

There was a low rumbling from both witchers, an angry growl at the knowledge that Julian had been injured, and he felt awash in relief and safety and care, that they reacted so viscerally. He could, admittedly, argue to himself that it was simply dislike for any possible slight to their capabilities, but he knew better. Maybe Julian didn't feel like he _deserved_ the care and concern they showed him, but he couldn't argue that his witchers cared about him, and he cared about them.

"We'll wrap his ribs when we get back," Eskel murmured over his head. "Just carry him carefully."

Geralt only growled, the sound vibrating through Julian's bones, only increasing the difficulty he was having staying awake now that his adrenaline and distress had dissipated.

"Are we going home?" Julian asked in a murmur, and he felt Geralt sigh, and wondered why.

"Yes, Julian," he said, as he started to walk with Julian cradled carefully in his arms. "We're going back."

* * *

It turned out that Geralt and Eskel had gone out through the window and none of the guards had been properly alerted, because when they strode up to the main gate with Julian cradled in Geralt's arms, there was enough of a commotion that it woke Julian up.

"If you were doing your jobs," Eskel snapped, "we wouldn't have had to chase down the mercenaries that did this! They came in through the prince's bedroom window two hours ago, why not try to figure out who should've been on that side of the grounds and let us get him back to bed?"

"I'm fine, Captain," Julian piped up from Geralt's arms, forcing a smile and patting Geralt's chest to let him down. Geralt seemed reluctant, but did so. Jaskier managed not to visibly grimace at the feeling of his ribs shifting. "I was just rather exhausted from the adrenaline, and had them carry me back. I'm sure Eskel and I will be able to give you an accounting of the situation tomorrow?"

"Of course, Your Highness," the guard captain responded immediately.

"Thank you. Come, witchers," he added to Geralt and Eskel, and strode confidently down the hall towards his room. Once they reached the proper wing, and passed the guards there with less interaction and a promise they'd be briefed tomorrow, Julian let his guard down and wrapped his arm around his chest with a soft groan.

" _Shit_ , that's painful," he muttered.

"Let's get you sitting down and Geralt can get you bandaged up to help stabilize them," Eskel said, putting a gentle hand between Julian's shoulder blades. "And you can talk to Lambert."

"Okay," Julian agreed with a grimace, and let both witchers help support him the rest of the way down the hall.

The look of relief on Vesemir's face when the door opened and he walked in on his own two feet was perhaps the most starkly open Julian had ever seen the old wolf be with his emotions.

"Thank fuck," he exhaled, and closed the distance immediately, looking Julian over for injuries. "No cuts or wounds?"

"Bruises," Geralt responded for Julian. "Couple of ribs might be broken."

"Could be worse," Vesemir decrees. "Come on, sit on the couch by the cot, Lambert'll want to see you."

"Fuck yeah I do, old man," Lambert's voice comes, a little less emphatically than normal, from the cot that stays in the parlor for Julian's second guard at night. Julian rushes over possibly too quickly for his own good, given how his ribs complain about the movement, but Lambert is there, alive, awake and being a snippy little bastard as always, and it's the most wonderful thing in the world.

"I thought you died," he whispered, pressing his hand on Lambert's chest over the witcher's heart. "They slit your throat, I thought you _died_."

"Eh, it'll take more than a couple'a cut-rate mercenaries to manage that," Lambert protested, but laid his hand over Julian's, as if he was seeking comfort and reassurance too. "They only even got the one artery, see?" he turns a little, carefully, so Julian can see the bandage that only is pressed over one side of his neck. "Six stitches, no big deal."

" _Fuck_ ," Julian breathed out, closing his eyes. Lambert had narrowly avoided death because of _him_. He knew they were, ostensibly, his guards, and that their purpose was to protect him with their lives if necessary, but the idea of it ever being necessary stuck in Julian's throat like it was going to choke him.

"Julian, I need to wrap your ribs," Geralt murmured, lightly resting his hand on Julian's shoulder.

"Those fuckers are dead, right?" Lambert growled softly.

"You really think we'd leave them breathing?" Eskel asked, as Julian reluctantly pulled his hand back and let Geralt move him a little ways away, where the witcher could bandage him easier.

"Should've left one," Vesemir said. "Find out who sent them."

"Julian was hurt!" Eskel protested. "We had no idea how badly! The priority was getting him safe and making sure he wasn't going to die on us."

"I know, pup," Vesemir said. "But it only takes one of you to handle interrogation and one to handle getting Julian to safety."

"Do you want to try to get your shirt off, or would that be too painful?" Geralt asked Julian quietly, hearing by largely ignoring the argument behind him.

"Leave it," Julian said shortly, and winced at the tone. "Sorry, just... lifting my arms is going to be a bitch and a half, and I may as well wait to take it off until tomorrow. I'll take a bath, get the dirt out of my hair." And, hopefully, not have to deal with the witchers seeing him shirtless.

"Okay," Geralt agreed, and carefully arranged Julian's shirt before he started wrapping a wide linen bandage around Julian's chest. While it still hurt, there was a distinct sense of relief that washed over Julian as the bandage wrapped snug around him, stabilizing his abused ribs so they wouldn't shift or grind together too much.

Eskel was still trying - rather in vain, it seemed - to justify his decision to kill _all_ of Julian's kidnappers to Vesemir, and as Geralt finished tying off the bandage, Julian interrupted.

"Maybe one of them should've left one of the men alive for questioning, but it's too late for that now," he pointed out. "And I was hurting and scared, and while I wish we know what their aim was and who put them up to it, I'm _also_ glad to be home with all of you already." Vesemir nodded slightly, granting his point. "Can... can we just go to bed?" he asked quietly. "That was fucking exhausting, and I'd rather like to have you all in one room right now, after what happened."

"Come on, little wolf," Eskel rumbled to Lambert, helping Lambert sit up without pulling his stitches. "Let's get you both tucked up in bed and we'll keep an eye on you while you sleep."

"Don't need anybody keeping an eye on me," Lambert muttered rebelliously, but he let Eskel keep a hand on his waist as they went to the bedroom.

"You're going to have to look into who ordered this kidnapping," Vesemir pointed out to Julian as Geralt helped him to his feet.

"Mmm, I know," Julian answered with a grimace as his ribs throbbed. "But not tonight."

"No," Vesemir agreed, stepping close and resting his hand on the back of Julian's neck, the way Julian had seen him do to the other witchers almost as a soothing gesture. Julian tried very hard not to show how much that gesture grounded and comforted him. "No, tonight is for rest and healing, I think."

"Thank you," Julian said, drooping a little in relief. He knew he'd have to be a part of that discussion, and the idea of doing it now, when he ached and was so tired from adrenaline and (thankfully misplaced) grief... Well, he knew it would be upsetting and possibly even disastrous, to try to have it now.

Vesemir led Julian to his bedroom, not dropping the hand from the back of Julian's neck until the prince was carefully sliding into bed next to where Lambert had snuggled down in the blankets.

"You have the best bed," Lambert mumbled. "Gonna sleep here every night."

Julian laughed, ignoring how that shot pain through his injured ribs, and patted Lambert's side, since reaching up to pet his hair was rather out of the question.

"If you like," he answered, and snuggled down into his own pillow as Geralt pulled the blankets up over him.

It was a strange thing, to feel so comfortable sharing his personal space - something he'd always guarded jealously - with these four warriors. But the feeling of Lambert's warmth in the bed next to him, and the soft sounds of the other three witchers settling themselves in spots around the room, was like coming home from a snowy ride to a warm fire and mulled wine. Safe, warm, and comforting.

"You'll stay until morning, right?" Julian asked faintly as he drifted off. There was a rumble of agreement from all of the witchers, even mostly-unconscious Lambert.

"We'll stay as long as you need us, pup," Vesemir said, and Julian sank into sleep with that reassurance wrapped tight around his heart.

* * *

When they finally sat down together to discuss what had happened, it turned out that as far as they could tell, all four of the witchers had been drugged, but at doses that didn't account for their mutated biology.

"It made us harder to rouse, and slower to react," Vesemir explained. "Which was how anyone managed to make it into your room at all. But we heard the commotion and saw the last of them slipping out the window. The boys stayed to help me with Lambert, because I couldn't manage patching him up on his own, then they came for you."

"I'm sorry it took us so long," Geralt added, his shoulders hunched slightly.

"I'm just glad you're all alive," Julian said, patting Geralt's arm comfortingly. "I was so sure Lambert was dead, it was _awful_."

"Witchers bleed out more slowly than humans," Eskel told him. "And we heal faster. As long as we get care quickly in extreme cases, there's very little we can't bounce back from."

"That said," Vesemir continued, "I would rather like to be able to make some potions, in case something like this happens again. If we'd had some Kiss, or even Swallow, that would've sped up our work on Lambert, and you two could've gone after Julian quicker."

"What do you need for your potions?" Julian asked. "I could probably get the ingredients from the kitchens, or the apothecary."

"Unfortunately, while that would do for a majority of our more mundane ingredients, some of what we need is rather... specialized," Vesemir said with a sigh.

"Monster guts," Lambert clarified. "We need various kinds of monster guts for our potions."

"That does _not_ seem healthy." Julian frowned, dubious.

"They're not, generally speaking," Eskel agreed. "Witcher potions are deadly for humans. And toxic for us, if we take too many of them."

Julian shuddered, not wanting to imagine what something that was capable of poisoning a _witcher_ would do to a human. But... they needed monster parts if they wanted to make their potions, and if they had their potions they were more likely to survive if something like the night before happened again.

“I could send two of you off if there are any monsters in nearby areas?” he suggested. “I could tell my father I’m testing the extent of control I have over you, and getting rid of a nuisance to the kingdom at the same time.” He grimaced slightly. “I can’t imagine most of our people have the strength or resources to fight off monsters themselves, and gods know the king won’t send troops unless it upsets the trade routes.”

“That could work,” Vesemir said thoughtfully, but Geralt frowned.

“Either we have to wait for Lambert’s neck to heal, or you should only send one,” he said. Julian was surprised that Geralt was asking _him_ , not Vesemir as they usually did. It wasn’t like he actually gave them orders, after all, except when other people could see or hear.

“One witcher will be a much easier target for my father to hurt than two,” Julian said. “We can come up with something different, or you can wait for Lambert’s stitches to come out in... what two days? Three?”

“But if you send someone out now, they could also go back to where the bandits were left, and see if there’s any clue as to who sent them on the bodies,” Vesemir sighed. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” Geralt nodded, not taking his eyes off Julian’s.

“I’m the strongest of us,” Geralt told Julian. “I’m not as skilled with signs as Eskel, and I’m not as acrobatic or good with explosives as Lambert, but I’m the strongest and the fastest. I was the last wolf caught, and I _almost_ got us all free when I was caught. I can get most of what we need for basic potions off smaller monsters, and I can evade any men your father may send after me.”

Julian bit the inside of his lip, a hard-to-detect way of gnawing it that he’d trained himself into when Tomasz had scolded him for the habit years ago. He _did_ want them to have potions, and it _would_ be good if they could find out who’d tried to kidnap him, clearly without any orders not to harm him.

“I...” he trailed off and shook his head. “Shouldn’t you be asking Vesemir? I don’t _actually_ command you.”

He almost could’ve sworn that Geralt flushed slightly, his gaze finally flicking over to Vesemir, who shook his head.

“We’re here for your protection, lad,” Vesemir said. “You know the threats we might face from the king better than we do. Even if you are over-cautious with us, we’re the last of our brothers, and I’m not inclined to risk my boys lightly. If you say it should be a pair, we’ll wait for Lambert’s stitches to come out before anyone goes monster hunting.”

“Oh,” Julian breathed, almost overwhelmed by that statement. He knew the witchers trusted him, obviously. He trusted _them_ implicitly, even if many people would say that was reckless of him. But he hadn’t realized they trusted him quite that much. He looked at Geralt again, meeting the wolf’s golden eyes. “You’ll be careful?” he asked.

“I will.” Geralt nodded.

“All right, then,” he said, nodding back. “You should go soon, probably. Try not to be seen leaving or returning.” Julian pursed his lips, trying to think of options. “If you go through the servants’ passages and out the kitchen, you’re unlikely to run into anyone who would inform my father in the palace itself. And clearly the guards aren’t at their best at night, so you could slip back in the same way under cover of darkness. Then no one needs know you’ve even gone.”

“Might be best if one of the servants takes him, if you can trust any of them,” Eskel offered. “And knows to expect him back. Just in case.”

“How come we’re just _assuming_ I can’t do anything until my stitches are out?” Lambert interjected.

“Because if you rip your stitches open, you’ll likely bleed out, and that would be messy and upsetting,” Vesemir answered blandly. “Eskel’s right, are there any of the servants you trust not to give us up or lead us astray?”

“I think so,” Julian said, running through his usual servants in his head. Some of them were too frightened of the witchers to be much help, of course, but a few of them had shown less caution around the witchers as time went on and they showed clear care for Julian. “Yes, I think Ela would be up for it. She’s newer, but less frightened of you than some of the others.”

He stood, with a bit of a grimace as his ribs shifted under their bandages, and went to pull the bell cord.

“One of us could’ve gotten that,” Eskel said reproachfully.

“Yes, and with my luck it would’ve been Lambert and he would’ve somehow found a way to rip his throat back open,” Julian responded lightly. He knew the witchers could tell he was still upset and worried about that, but he could still play it off. Let them know that he was all right, just worried. Geralt squeezed his shoulder as he passed Julian, going to his room to pull on his armor and weapons. “Though Lambert, you _should_ probably get out of sight,” Julian added. “So no one knows one of you was injured.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Lambert said, letting Eskel help him to his feet only after scowling at him for a good five seconds. He settled himself on the far side of the room, sprawled on a sofa under a blanket tugged up to hide the bandage around his neck. “What?” he asked when he caught Julian giving him an exasperated look. “I’m not leaving the room, as long as they can’t see the bandage, I’m golden!”

Julian sighed and shook his head as he sat back down at the table, pulling a pastry from breakfast over to nibble on. Stubborn witchers.

A knock sounded on the door a few minutes later, and Ela slipped in at Julian’s call of, “Enter!”

“Ah, Ela, wonderful,” Julian said, standing. “Close the door if you please, there’s a girl.”

Ela did as she was asked, stepping a little further into the room and folding her hands in front of her.

“How may I be of service, your highness?” she asked.

“I have a bit of an odd request for you,” Julian admitted. “Nothing too strenuous, though. One of my witchers needs to leave the palace grounds with... as little notice as possible, and return the same way.” he glanced at Vesemir. “How long, do you think?”

“Depends on how easy it is to find what he’s looking for. Probably a couple days at least.”

“Hmm, right.” Julian turned back to Ela. “He’ll be returning after dark. I need you to take him out to the grounds by whatever way would attract the least notice, and be ready to let him back in and bring him back when he returns. And, preferably, not speak of this to anyone. Can you do that?”

Ela nodded immediately. “Of course, your highness,” she said firmly. “He’ll make it out and back safe as houses, at least ‘long as I’m with him, and I won’t breathe a word.”

“You’re a treasure, Ela, truly,” Julian smiled in relief. Ela stood slightly straighter, seeming to glow under the praise. “Don’t be alarmed if he’s a bit... _messy_ , when he gets back, all right? _You_ won’t be in any danger from him at any point.”

“Of course not!” Ela protested, almost seeming offended by the suggestion, before remembering who she was speaking to and flushing brightly. “Begging your pardon, that is, your highness,” she added. “It’s only, those of us who serve _you_ , we know they’re loyal as anything, and gentle as a bitch with her pups when it comes to you and yours. And we know _we’re_ yours, begging your pardon for being so forward, your highness.”

Eskel chuckled from across the room at Julian’s slightly gobsmacked expression. “I like this one,” he said with a grin. “She’s right, though. I’m pretty sure if you staged a coup they’d all be on your side.”

Julian blanched. “Eskel, you’re going to be the death of me,” he snapped, and turned back to Ela with a slightly panicked air. “He _was_ joking, you understand. I have no intention of staging a coup.”

“I do, yes,” Ela agreed cheerfully. “But he’s right. If it please your highness.”

“Melitele save me from overly loyal subjects,” Julian muttered, burying his face in his hands, to the amusement of his wolves and Ela. He jumped and whipped his head up when a hand landed on his shoulder, and looked up to see Geralt in full armor, a smile clearly twitching at his lips despite trying to stay solemn. 

“I don’t think she’s inclined to do that,” he told Julian. “It’s much more fun to watch you splutter.”

“ _Geralt_!” Julian protested, playing more aghast than he felt but also flushing brightly in earnest. Geralt patted his shoulder, then stepped past him to Ela.

“You’re my guide, then?” he asked her.

“Y-yes, Master Witcher,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. She seemed nervous at having Geralt so close, but not overly so. Most of the servants didn’t interact much with the witchers, aside from being told to pass a message now and then, so Julian couldn’t really blame her. She led Geralt out without any apparent hesitation at the idea of turning her back on him, though, which was really more than Julian had expected. He wondered absently, as he retreated to the sofa next to Eskel, if there was any sort of promotion or increase in pay he could get her without it seeming like he was being inappropriate with her.

“It’s almost sickening, how sincerely you inspire loyalty,” Lambert commented with a grin, and Julian buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, shut the _fuck_ up, Lambert,” he muttered, to a round of laughter from his wolves.

* * *

Geralt came back three days later, rather smellier than usual and with a sack of ingredients that Julian wanted nothing to do with, thank you all very much. He seemed to be in a foul mood, and only grunted in response to any questions about how the trip had gone or what he’d found.

“Let him take a bath,” Eskel assured Julian, who was feeling quite off-kilter by Geralt’s responses, after Geralt had gone to the bedroom. “He’ll feel better once he’s clean and had a chance to unwind. He gets a bit irritable sometimes, when he’s dirty and tired.”

Julian trusted Eskel to know his brother well enough to make such claims, so he simply busied himself accepting the tray of food that Ela had returned with after delivering Geralt safely, and flipped through some correspondence he’d already read earlier, just to have something to do, so he didn’t go mad waiting for Geralt to make his way back out to update them on what he may have found at the bandits’ camp.

The bath did not seem to have helped much, given the thunderous expression on Geralt’s face when he stalked back out - clean and still slightly damp - and threw a piece of parchment on the table.

“He didn’t even bother to have someone else write it or disguise his fucking handwriting,” he growled, and Julian frowned at him before peering down at the letter.

It was a simple thing, promising coin for removing the crown prince from the palace, any collateral damage to his “personal guards” would be acceptable. Promising that the witchers would be incapacitated and the palace guards wouldn’t be present at the back of the grounds during a specific watch. That it would be simple as anything to get the boy out without putting themselves at risk, and that they were to take the prince to a specific location to hand him off to their employer’s men and receive their payment. That it wouldn’t affect their pay if the prince were roughed up a bit on the way.

Julian felt his stomach turn and sour, looking at it.

“Whose handwriting?” Lambert asked, squinting down at the letter as if it would answer his question. 

Julian swallowed hard. 

“My father’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another cliffhanger. _I KNOW_. I promise it's not all cliffhangers, this section of the fic is just a wee bit fraught. I love you?
> 
> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> I really do love getting people on either platform messaging me, so please hmu if you'd like to scream directly at my face about your emotions. It gives me joy and motivation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EARLY UPDATE. I got impatient. XD

"It's fucking easy, we just _kill him_ ," Lambert insisted, as Lambert and Eskel held a rather hushed argument across the table, whispering so their voices wouldn't carry outside of Julian's rooms. "Clearly the guy doesn't think he can control Julek anymore and he wants a more tractable heir. We take him out of play, Julian's safe _and_ the king, problem solved!"

"Not if they suspect Julian of having done it or ordered it himself," Eskel pointed out.

"So we show the fucking _\--_ " Lambert's voice rose, earning him a sharp glare from Vesemir. "So we show the fucking council the _fucking_ letter!" he continued more quietly. "No way they don't recognize their king's handwriting, all the shit he probably has to sign! We were defending the crown prince and it was our job, we've got proof he was involved, problem solved!"

"It's not that _simple_ , Lambert," Eskel protested.

"The fuck it isn't! Geralt, you're with me on this, right?"

"Don't try to _bully_ Geralt into agreeing with you!"

"You can't," Julian said softly, speaking for the first time in probably the last ten minutes of debate. All four sets of yellow-gold eyes turned to him.

"Why _not_?" Lambert asked, looking taken aback. "Fucker had you kidnapped. Probably was gonna have you _killed_ and make it look like it was some foreign government he wants to go to war with."

"I know," Julian responded, his voice rough. He'd known his father didn't love him. He didn't love Tomasz either, frankly. But he'd never expected it to run this deep. "I know," he repeated, "but the council is on his side. The _military_ is on his side. Best case scenario, I get executed for being a traitor."

All four of the witchers sit silently for a long moment.

"So what do we do?" Geralt asked finally, looking between Julian and Vesemir, his eyes hard with restrained anger.

"We change the night shift so there's always at least one of us _awake_ ," Vesemir said. "And we keep a close eye on Julian so the bastard doesn't get another shot."

Geralt growled, and Lambert glared at Vesemir.

"Fine," Lambert said. "But I don't have to like it. And he tries _anything_ else..."

"We'll revisit the plan if he tries anything else," Vesemir agreed.

"I've gotta go hit something," Lambert growls, and stalks out towards the music room salle, Eskel close on his heels.

"Is he angry with me for saying no?" Julian asked Vesemir after a moment, as silence fell back over the room.

"No," Vesemir replied. "He's just angry there's no one he can stab over it at the moment." He stood, and patted Julian lightly on the shoulder. "You should take a soak, I know you're still sore. And let Geralt look at those ribs while you're at it. I'm going to have a read by the fire."

"By which he means a nap with a book in his lap, no doubt," Julian murmured to Geralt, which had the desired reaction of teasing a smile out of his serious wolf. Or, well, smoothing out the frown, which was often the same thing.

"Come on," Geralt said, standing. "Let's have a look of those ribs."

"Ah," Julian said, hesitating. "Here?"

The frown was back, though this time more confused than angry. "While you get ready for your bath should be fine," Geralt allowed, and Julian nodded understanding. It was fine. It would be better done in the bath anyway. Where only Geralt would see, and hopefully not react badly. Vesemir watched him over the top of his book with sharp eyes, and Julian forced a smile before retreated to the bath attached to his bedroom and opened the faucets, allowing water to start filling the stoppered tub.

Geralt followed him in but simply hovered in the doorway rather than closing the distance so he could help Julian remove the wrappings over his shirt.

"I can get one of the others, if you'd rather," Geralt said quietly, barely audible over the flowing water.

"No, it's... you're fine," Julian assured him with a half-hearted smile. "I just-- well, it's not _you_ that's the problem. Come on, then, help me with this so you can check them."

Geralt’s hands were so painfully gentle as he unwrapped Julian’s ribs, like he was afraid Julian might break under his touch. While Geralt was always gentle when he touched Julian, this seemed particularly cautious, and Julian wondered if it was because of his reluctance to have his ribs looked at. It wasn’t really about his _ribs_ , honestly, but Geralt had no reason to know why else it might be. Once the bandages were unwound, Julian breathed deeply, despite the pain, then carefully maneuvered his shirt off.

He heard the sharp breath Geralt sucked in through his nose when the shirt came off and grimaced. His back was not _entirely_ a mess of scars from lashings when he was younger and more inclined to contradict his father openly, but there were a non-negligible number of raised lines crisscrossing his back. He didn’t like thinking about them, and he knew they were horrifying considering his age and who must have ordered the whippings, but mostly he didn’t want to turn and see the pity in Geralt’s eyes.

Poor little prince, got whipped when he pushed too hard against a father he _knew_ was likely to hurt him. He knew it was wrong, that Tomasz was a monster for it, but so many people went through so much worse. People, even children like he’d been, whipped inexpertly, their wounds left open and untended, scarring messily. Julian’s were different. They were never left to infection, or bleeding freely onto his clothes. They were done by someone who knew what they were about, none ever cut dangerously deep or curled around his shoulders or ribs. Many had scarred so faintly he thought they were all but invisible. The ones that were visible had been treated with the _intent_ to scar.

They were only scars because Tomasz had _wanted_ them to be scars, and Julian hated them.

Geralt didn’t say anything for a long moment, as Julian stood with his back toward him and his shoulders drawn up, clutching his shirt like a lifeline. Then there was a long exhale of breath, and Geralt’s calloused hands gently touched Julian’s skin. Not on his back, tracing his scars or any such poetic nonsense, but on his sides, feeling the positions of his ribs.

It was... not what Julian expected.

“They seem to be setting in position well,” Geralt murmured, prodding at the bruises that hadn’t yet faded. “If you’re careful while they heal, shouldn’t cause any problems for you.”

“Oh,” Julian said. He let out a breath he’d been holding without meaning to, and turned the taps off before turning back to Geralt. He was frowning unhappily, but he didn’t look pitying. “Aren’t you going to ask about them?” he blurted without thinking. 

Geralt’s face softened slightly, and he shook his head. “Witchers know what it’s like to have scars you don’t want to talk about,” he said simply. “You can tell me if you want, but I won’t ask.” Every time Julian thinks he’s seen the shape of these men, they show him something new. It’s exhilarating, and makes something swell pleasantly in his chest.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Maybe another time.”

“Another time,” Geralt agreed mildly. “Do you... need help with your bath?” he asked after a moment’s pause, sounding uncertain. 

“Maybe getting out,” Julian said with an irritated sigh. Thus far, his ribs had been more of an annoyance than anything, but they did make levering himself upright a bit difficult sometimes. “Just keep an ear out? I don’t want to have survived a kidnapping and possible assassination only to slip and die in the bath trying to climb out on my own.”

Geralt huffed a soft laugh, and shook his head. “Just call if you need us,” he said, and left Julian to his devices, closing the door behind him.

Julian sank carefully into the hot water and settled in for a nice soak, the pleasant feeling in his chest warming him inside as much as the water did outside. Even in the face of his father’s attempt on his life, he had his witchers, and that was enough to be content with.

* * *

It was with some relief that Julian saw Tomasz and his entourage off to see to some diplomatic scuffles on the eastern border that needed the king’s presence, only a week or so later. It made every part of his life a little easier, especially suppers, which were now taken solely with his mother and sister in the queen's salon, and whichever two witchers weren't guarding him were coaxed into eating with them.

"I'm very glad he has you looking out for him," his sister Mathilde said the first night. "That attempted kidnapping was so frightening, even if we didn't even know he was gone until you returned!"

"It does make one wonder," the queen said softly, meeting Eskel's eyes across the table, "why you didn't call for the guard?"

"Ah," Eskel said, clearly searching for a believable answer, but Julian shook his head.

"They don't trust father any further than we do," he said firmly, and his frank statement seemed to ease their nerves a little, at least, and the rest of supper was spent laughing and enjoying company, Mathilde and Queen Susana telling stories of the better chapters of Julian's childhood, and the trouble he would get into.

Mathilde cornered him after, out of what she _thought_ was earshot for the witchers, though Julian knew otherwise.

"They could take you away, you know," she whispered. "I've no doubt they've the skill to evade Father's men."

"They could," Julian agreed. "But I won't leave if it means abandoning you and mother to his tempers and machinations. They're keeping me safe from him, and I can use that to help keep _you_ safe from him, at least for now."

"Fine," Mathilde agreed reluctantly. "But if an opportunity to truly get away presents itself, _take it_. I'll muddle through ruling in your place."

She squeezed his hand and stared at him meaningfully, and Julian felt a surge of love for his sister. If there was an opening for he and his witchers to remove both himself and Tomasz from the succession, she said without saying, Mathilde would be ready.

"Your idea of muddling through is likely better than my best attempts," he admitted, and kissed her cheek. "I'll remember."

"Good," she replied, then shooed him back to his witchers, who seemed suddenly eager to retire.

Vesemir had barely closed the doors to Julian's rooms when Lambert whirled on him with a bright look in his eye.

"Did your sister just offer to have your back if we killed the king and ran off together?" he asked, his voice low and intense.

"I think she did," Julian replied wonderingly. "Huh. I guess we should keep that in mind."

* * *

Things became somewhat more pressing than just Julian getting away, once Tomasz returned. The king called a full council meeting almost immediately, which was unusual enough that Julian - and thus the witchers also - was on edge.

"He always likes to rest before he does any council business," Julian muttered, half to himself and half to Eskel, who was helping him dress. "Either something's very wrong, or... I don't know what else it could be. I haven't heard of _anything_ going on in that area that would necessitate this."

"Whatever it is, you'll handle it," Eskel assured him. "Vesemir and Lambert will be in the room with you, and Geralt and I will be outside in the hall, just in case there's any part of this that is a threat to you."

"What have I done to deserve such loyal protectors?" Julian asked with a fond smile.

"Trusted us. Treated us like people. Gave us as much freedom as you could." Eskel smiled back at him and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're the only human who's cared to do any of that in a long time, Julek. We don't take that lightly."

"Well, if you want to get all _sincere_ about it," Julian mumbled, trying to hide how he was flushing under the simple praise. Eskel laughed.

It was the last light-hearted moment any of them would have that day. They left the bedroom smiling, and the four witchers flanked Julian as he made his way to the council chambers, Geralt and Eskel taking up positions on either side of the door, displacing the usual guards to stand opposite them in the hallway - still _there_ , but in no mood to argue with the crown prince's personal guards on where they'd stand, while the prince was inside. Lambert and Vesemir followed him inside and stood behind his chair impassively while they waited for the council to fully assemble.

"There have been some troubling events in the east of Kerack," Tomasz began once everyone had arrived. "A collection of elves and other non-humans attempted to take control of one of our border towns, driving the mayor and his family out of their home, and terrorizing the human population." There was a wave of murmuring around the table, the old men around it outraged and shocked. Julian felt a chill down his spine. "An army regiment was dispatched and the situation dealt with," Tomasz continued, "but I fear the sentiment behind it has already spread to further parts of our land."

"Sotonin has been _ravaged_ with crime since a caravan of elves settled there," one of the council members offered.

"It doesn't help our people when they're willing to provide goods and labor for so much less than true Keracki craftsmen and laborers," another spoke up.

"You can't blame them for undercutting their own profits to try to survive!" Julian protested, frowning. No one gave him any notice, the chatter rising as all the council members brought up the supposed wrongs that had been done to the humans of Kerack by non-humans.

" _Clearly_ ," Tomasz said loudly, causing the room to quiet again, "we need some sort of solution. We cannot trust these creatures in our own communities, so clearly we should _remove_ them."

"And have them go _where_?" Julian protested, standing so he couldn't be ignored and spoken over. "Kerack is their home as much as it is ours. As much as it is any human who chooses to make it such."

"Calm yourself, Julian," Tomasz snapped. "Lord Ostwick and I discussed options on the journey back from the border, and we've come up with a plan that will suit even you, I believe." He gestured to Lord Ostwick, who stood, and Julian reluctantly sat down, not convinced he would like _any_ plan Tomasz suggested but willing to hear it so he could argue against it.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Ostwick bowed. "The obvious solution, clearly, is to create... _settlements_ for them, away from human cities." Julian's eyes narrowed at Ostwick's brief pause, and the way his eyes flickered towards Julian as he did. It was suspicious, but Julian wasn't sure _how_. "They have craftsmen and laborers, let them craft and labor for their own kind. We will choose two, perhaps three locations away from other towns, perhaps in an abandoned village or former logging camp, and relocate all non-humans to these locations. There, they can resume their lives and the rightful human inhabitants of Kerack will have their homes and jobs without the infestation of these creatures."

"They're just as much 'rightful' inhabitants as we are!" Julian protested, aghast. "You're talking about forcing thousands of Keracki people from their homes and businesses simply for being _non-human_? It's madness!"

"Your opinion has been _noted_ , Julian" Tomasz said. "Allow the other council members a chance to voice theirs."

Julian scowled at Tomasz, but fell silent as the other council members asked questions and offered suggestions and universally, it seemed, approved of this plan. He felt a sinking dread like a chunk of ice in his stomach as the conversation went on, his horror increasing with every added thought and moment of bigotry. This would pass. This would pass and even if every non-human in Kerack went along and didn't try to push back and end up getting themselves killed, they would still likely starve, as none of the proposed places for these 'relocation communities' could support significant farming.

"We must still look into the costs to the Crown for any of these possible implementations," Ostwick said at last, "and finalize the course of action we wish to take. Lords Stern and Donner, as well as myself, will draft a proposal for the king, and once he has given it provisional approval we will bring it before the council at large for any final changes."

"Very good, Lord Ostwick," Tomasz said. "I expect it as soon as possible, and we will reconvene on this matter once it has been completed." He nodded to them all, stood, and retired to his private offices and the council stood and began to exit.

Julian gathered his notes and belongings and all but fled the council room, his witchers just behind him. He almost went to his own rooms, but instead headed into the salle, dropping his papers on his desk and starting to pace in the cleared space where the witchers trained.

"This is so bad," he said once the door was closed behind the last of them. "Geralt, Eskel, did you hear--"

"They plan to forcibly relocate all the non-humans in Kerack?" Eskel finished, his expression stormy. "Yes, we heard."

"They're giving no thought to the longevity of these so-called 'communities'," Julian said, tangling his fingers in his hair as he paced. "None of those locations have the sort of extensive farmland they'd need, and even then a large town or small city can't sustain _itself_ , not fully, but there's no talk of allowing them to trade with human cities, or allowing human traders to come to them." He huffed and shook his head. "Not that many _would_ , which is a whole other difficulty. And the talk of _guards_? Of building walls, but not building houses? It's like they're making prison camps, not _communities_. Even if it _were_ an acceptable course of action, which it _isn't_ , they're going about it all wrong!"

"Calm down, pup," Vesemir said. "We don't disagree with you, though we might not be able to see as many ways it won't work as you can, but working yourself up about it isn't going to help anyone."

"Geralt," Lambert grit out, clearly wound up from having to stay still and silent through all of that, "Sword. Now."

Geralt was clearly angry as well, and nodded, grabbing two swords for him and Lambert to spar with. The two started sparring, the clashing of swords resonating and doing nothing for Julian's nerves, just imagining that as the sound of resisting non-human Kerackis facing the army on his father's orders.

"We have to stop this," he said, even as Eskel redirected his pacing so that Geralt and Lambert wouldn't have to maneuver _around_ him. "Or... or _mitigate_ it, or _something_."

"You'll figure out something," Eskel assured him. "We'll help you think of things. But you need to calm down enough to think clearly."

"Come," Vesemir said, taking Julian by the shoulders and directing him to a clear area away from Geralt and Lambert's sparring. "I'll teach you some basic footwork and strengthening exercises that won't exacerbate your ribs. It'll get your mind off the situation now, and hopefully wear you out enough to sleep deeply, and we'll come together to try discussing ways to push back against the worst of this tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Julian sighed, in a resigned tone rather similar to the younger wolves when they were being given training orders they didn't much enjoy. Vesemir's lip twitched like he was hiding a smile, but said nothing about it.

"Now, first thing's first," he said, "you have to learn how to hold your body."

* * *

It was a week before Ostwick brought the proposal to the king, and another two days before the council was called to discuss it. Julian had spent it being much more physically active than he generally had time for these days, abandoning his remaining tutors for mornings spent alternately discussing possible ways to improve and defang the likely-inevitable relocation of non-humans, and learning the basics of what Vesemir called "useful swordsmanship" and what Lambert called " _real_ fighting, not that performative fencing shit they taught you". The amount he could learn was limited by his still-healing ribs, for now, but Vesemir swore it was a solid foundation to build from, and would only help him later on.

The council was a relief, for all Julian dreaded it, because he could finally put their work to use, to try his best to make this situation the least shitty it could be, since he didn't have the power to stop it fully if his father was determined to enact it.

Except... once the meeting started, every time Julian voiced his concerns or suggested a change, his father glared daggers at him and moved on without addressing him directly. The plan dealt with the problem of transporting the non-humans to the 'relocation centers' (no longer even called _communities_ ), the construction of temporary housing barracks, and the guards needed to keep them from escaping. It _didn't_ deal with more permanent housing, supplies they'd need to start fresh, or the issue of how they would sustain themselves once they got there, as there would _certainly_ not be enough farmland. Nor did it deal with the possibility of some non-humans wanting to just _leave_ Kerack instead of being forced into a segregated "community".

Some small changes were to be made and the order written properly by a scribe before the king would sign it and begin the process, so there were a few days, perhaps, before it all began. Julian wanted to address _any_ of it. His father wouldn't respond to his requests for a meeting later that day, simply walking out of the council room without acknowledging him.

"I've failed them," he whispered to Geralt across the room as he lay in bed that night, willing himself to fall asleep.

"No you haven't," Geralt said firmly but softly. "You've done everything you could."

"Maybe," Julian allowed, and rolled over with a sigh.

He was woken up in a room that still had moonlight streaming through the windows, by Lambert all but throwing the door open.

"They're not being relocated," Lambert said, shaking a piece of paper at Julian, who wasn't fully coherent yet even as he sat up.

"Bwuh?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. Vesemir came in frowning from the sitting room, and Eskel tumbled out of the spare bedroom with his sword in hand and without a shirt. Geralt lit the lamps, and Lambert held out the parchment with a grim expression.

"The king isn't _relocating_ the non-humans," he said more clearly, as Julian skimmed the paper, more awake and horrified as he took in the _actual_ full plan that he had not been made aware of.

"He's exterminating them," Julian whispered.

" _What_?" Eskel growled, and snatched the parchment from Julian's hands, his frown deepening as he read. He cursed softly, then handed it to Geralt, who leaned over to share with Vesemir.

The plan was, up to the arrival at the relocation centers, exactly as it had been laid out in the official meetings Julian had attended. After that, however, instead of allowing the non-humans to build a community as they would be told as they were transported, they would be summarily executed. For the crime of being non-human and daring to take jobs and resources that belonged to the true - _human_ \- Keracki people.

"This is genocide," Julian whispered, then turned his attention sharply to Lambert. "Where did you get this? How?"

"Figured everything was pretty shifty after this morning," Lambert explained. "Didn't sit right, none of the plans accounting for after they got there. And you were so upset about it. Figured if there was more going on, it'd be on that bastard's desk somewhere."

"You... broke into my father's private offices and took this off his _desk_?" Julian asked, his horror mildly distracted by the fact that Lambert had not only been so reckless, but also so _successful_. Lambert just shrugged.

"Worth it, though, wasn't it?" he asked. "Now we know what his real aim was. Betcha anything the rest of the council knew and you just weren't informed about a meeting so he didn't have to listen to your protests and shit."

"That _does_ sound like him," Julian agreed ruefully, and rubbed his face wearily. "Fuck. And he's going to sign this into a proper order to be dispatched across the kingdom as soon as the scribe's done with the official copies."

“Is there any way to stall something like this?” Vesemir asked, though he didn’t sound particularly hopeful about the answer.

“Not at this point, no,” Julian said. They all fell silent for a moment.

“Yeah there is,” Lambert said finally. Geralt growled softly. “There _is_ ,” Lambert insisted to him, then turned back to Julian. “It can’t get signed into law if the king doesn’t _want_ to sign it,” he said, his gaze heavy on Julian. Julian thinks back to the discovery that his father had been the one to orchestrate his kidnapping. Looks at the healed scar on Lambert’s neck.

“I... I don’t know,” he stammered. “It... how would we even...”

“You’re almost nineteen. Couple more months, right?” Lambert waited for Julian’s nod. “You’re used to us. Maybe even, say, a little complacent. So we, uh... _incapacitate_ you. Drug you, maybe tie you up for good measure? Take Geralt’s medallion back, and then go kill him in his bed and take off into the night. We won’t have a problem avoiding your people especially if you send them in the wrong direction, and then _you’ll_ be king and you can start fixing the shit that asshole’s fucked up! Your sister’ll back you, and _this_ ,” he taps the parchment urgently, “never gets signed.“

“I suppose,” Julian said reluctantly, his heart sinking.

“That’s not actually a bad plan, pup,” Vesemir told Lambert, sounding pleased. Eskel seemed viciously pleased at the thought of _actually_ getting to dispatch Tomasz, and grinned.

Geralt just looked at Julian steadily, searching his face for something.

“You don’t like it,” he rumbled, and three more pairs of gold eyes snapped to Julian’s face. Lambert actually looked almost crestfallen.

“It’s... not that it’s a bad plan,” Julian tried to assure them, though his voice felt wobblier than he wanted it to be. “Or that I care if that bastard dies. But it...” He looks between all four of them helplessly. These men had become his family, since they came into his life. More than, in many ways. “I don’t want to be left behind,” he finished plaintively. “I don’t want to leave you. Certainly not to take up a crown I’m barely suited to, without you four there to make it bearable!”

The witchers stared at him for a moment, then Vesemir exhaled slowly.

“Your sister’s offer, was that sincere?” he asked. 

Julian nodded. “She... she would make a truly wonderful queen,” he said. “And she’d actually enjoy it, as much as you can enjoy something like that. More than I would.”

“And you’d be willing to live rough with us?” Vesemir pushed slightly. “It’s a hard life. Long days on little food and no feather bed or hot bath at the end of it.”

“It would be an adjustment,” Julian agreed. “But one I’d be willing to make, if it meant getting away from this life. Even with Tomasz gone, I don’t think I could ever be truly happy here. Especially not when I know Mathilde would do such a better job ruling.”

“They’ll probably blame you,” Eskel said. “Not that it isn’t true, but you’ll likely never be able to come back safely, at least not until enough time has passed that your sister can pardon you without risking her own support.”

"I know. Believe me, I know." Julian ran a hand through his hair and laughed shakily. "But... _fuck_. I can't stomach the thought of you leaving and me being stuck here. But I can't not stop this ' _relocation_ ' bullshit. It'll save the lives of all the non-humans in Kerack, and improve the lives of basically everyone including my sister and mother, and it frees me from all of this shit that would wear me down to nothing." He looked between them all. "I... if you don't want me to stay with you, I would understand, but--"

"Of _course_ we do," Geralt growled sharply. Julian couldn't help but smile at the contradiction between his tone and words, and at the somewhat embarrassed expression that flickered across his face when he realized how harsh he'd sounded.

"Okay, then," Julian said, his eyes bright as he looked at his wolves, his magnificent brave _loyal_ wolves, and grinned viciously. "Lambert, get that back into his office so he doesn't suspect anything. We have a regicide to plan."

* * *

They didn't act that night. It was already so late, they wouldn't have time, and Julian knew his father would want to make a production of this heinous order, they had the night to plan, and the day after to prepare. The witchers had all kept their gear in good condition, ready to go at a moment's notice, so it was only a matter of double-checking it all. Ela was - reluctantly, because Julian didn't want her getting in trouble as a conspirator - asked to bring packs, with the excuse being that Julian was planning to slip off for a small camping trip to unwind, which Ela was supportive of and swore she would breathe not a word of.

They packed the packs. Bedrolls were sadly too difficult to get hold of without giving themselves away, but Julian managed to find a lute case in a cleverly hidden cabinet in the music room, and gratefully tucked one of the less ornate lutes into it, slipping it down the hall and into his rooms when Eskel verified no one was close enough to witness it. He lingered over his favorite, the elven-crafted beauty he'd fallen in love with all those years ago, but knew it was too fancy and distinctive for being on the run.

"Does your sister know you favor it?" Eskel asked as Julian reluctantly set the lute down.

"I think so, yes," Julian said. "With any luck she'll save it for me."

Supper was tense, as Julian had to dine with his family, sit next to his father and act as though everything was as fine as it ever was, and Julian was only frustrated because he hadn't gotten his way in details of the 'relocation' order. He managed, though, to be polite and not too evasive, he thought. Maybe after tonight, people would look back and think that it was so obvious in retrospect, but as long as they didn't catch on _tonight_ , he couldn't care less.

When he got back to his rooms, emotionally and physically exhausted, Geralt - at Vesemir's order - all but picked Julian up and deposited him in his bed.

"You won't leave without me, right?" Julian asked quietly, trying not to feel suddenly uncertain when they hadn't done anything but be honest with him.

"No," Geralt assured him. "You just need to sleep so we can get as far from the palace as possible after we're finished."

"Okay. Yeah." Julian shifted a bit, feeling tense and like his skin was buzzing. It seemed impossible to get comfortable, let alone fall asleep, no matter how tired he was. "...Geralt?"

"Hmm?"

"Could... could you just... hold me?" he asked quietly. Geralt hesitated only for half a second, not even enough time for Julian to regret asking, before he flipped the blankets back and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah, Julek," he said softly. "I can do that."

He settled himself, slightly upright and propped up by pillows, and then tugged Julian over, so he could just curl up against Geralt's chest. It was intimate and almost uncomfortable because of that, but as Geralt pulled the blankets back over them both, Julian was warm and felt anchored to the moment by Geralt's arm around him. The exhaustion of everything they'd had to handle since Lambert woke him up the night before caught up before he knew it, and he drifted off feeling possibly the safest and most cared for that he had in years.

It felt like only moments before Geralt was gently shaking his shoulder.

"Julian. Julek. Time to wake up."

Julian groaned and swatted ineffectively at Geralt's chest.

"You've got to get up if we're going to get you out of here," Geralt pointed out.

"Fine," Julian grumbled. "But only 'cause of that. You're _comfy_."

Geralt chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Julian's head. It felt like what Julian expected having a lover would be like, and that realization was what got him to sit up rather abruptly, trying to ignore how his cheeks were flushed in the dim light. Maybe he'd be lucky and Geralt wouldn't be able to tell.

"We should get ready," Julian declared, clambering out of bed and digging in his wardrobe for the simplest clothes he had. Some of his nicer things that weren't too distinctively royal had been packed in his bags to sell once they got out of Kerack. They were clearly tailored to him, so it was unlikely anyone would accuse him of stealing them, and if they traveled fast enough they could probably sell it before news of what they were planning to do before fleeing Kerack wouldn't have spread that far yet. Hopefully if they sold them outside Kerack, any non-Keracki merchants would not feel obliged to report it when the news _did_ reach them.

His hunting kit wasn't perfect, as it was still nicer than anything anyone living as rough as he was about to be would be wearing, but it was at least not colorful or ostentatious, and wouldn't draw _too_ much attention. By the time he was dressed, it seemed all the witchers had managed to fully dress and gather their things. Fighting with packs wasn't something any of them looked forward to, but they needed the supplies and were unwilling to leave Julian with them anywhere away from them.

It wasn't as if Julian hadn't seen them kitted out in armor or using swords, but there was something about the determination in their eyes tonight that made his heart stutter in his chest. They were _beautiful_ , his wolves. And they were, somehow, _his_ wolves. They were taking him with them, and gladly, despite the fact that he would be very little use on the road, especially given the situation they'd be traveling in.

"Well, do we pass muster for prince charming?" Lambert asked with a wicked grin, spreading his arms to display himself.

"Poor substitution for prince charming, more like," Eskel muttered and rolled his eyes, shoving Lambert's shoulder.

"You look _magnificent_ ," Julian told them honestly. Both Eskel and Lambert seemed flustered by that, and Geralt too if Julian judged by the way he shoved his back and lute at him.

"All right pups, focus," Vesemir said firmly. The three wolves settled and attended. Julian did too. "No mistakes. No stupid risks. Geralt and Lambert front, Eskel with me in back, Julian in the middle." He pointed at Julian, who stood straighter on instinct. "You don't try to join any fights, you stay where we tell you to stay. If we tell you to _run_ , you get out of the palace and off the grounds however you can, and we'll catch up with you, you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Julian said solemnly. He didn't _want_ to be kept so thoroughly out of everything, but he knew that this was a very risky thing they were doing, and he didn't want them to have to worry about him any more than necessary. He would have chances to prove he wasn't helpless _later_ , when they'd survived committing regicide.

"All right," Vesemir nodded. "Let's go."

The halls were dim and quiet. Julian knew they would run into some guards, and tried not to feel sick about the fact they would likely die, if only so they wouldn't be able to raise the alarm. It was necessary, and they'd known they would put their lives at risk when they joined the guard. Right?

He was still worrying about it when all the witchers turned, almost as one, to face a door as it cracked open behind them.

"Julian?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /turns off location services :'D
> 
> Just a pre-emptive warning that now that NaNoWriMo my writing speed has dropped a bit, so I may run out of buffer eventually. It won't be until January if I do, but DO NOT BE CONCERNED IF I SUDDENLY HAVE A LITTLE LONGER BETWEEN UPDATES. I'm still actively working on this, so with any luck I _won't_ run out of buffer, but just for the purposes of clarity etc. :*
> 
> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> Comments and Kudos bring joy to my heart, a song to my lips, and a spring to my step! And more literally they make me do happywiggles wherever I'm sitting, so. COMMENT AND KUDOS TO GIVE A GUY HAPPYWIGGLES!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hold on to your butts, my friends!

"Julian?"

Julian grimaced and turned to meet Mathilde's eyes, looking weary but not at all like she'd been woken up. Almost like, maybe, she'd been waiting for them to walk past.

"Go to bed, Tilly," he said, using the nickname he'd called her when he was little. "Please."

"You're leaving?" she asked, her eyes flickering to each of the witchers in turn, and their bared steel.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Apologize to Mother for me? For not saying goodbye?"

"Only if you apologize for _trying_ to do the same to me," she said, stepping into the hallway, practically glaring at the witchers as if daring them to suggest they should hurry up. The witchers, wisely, did no such thing. Julian stepped out of between them and pulled his sister into a tight hug.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I'll miss you."

"Not as much as you'll be glad to be gone," she whispered back, her tone fond. "I'm glad."

"You'll be okay?" He asked, pulling back and searching her face.

"Oh, I think I'll muddle through," she said with a pointed look, and Julian was thrown back to that supper only a scant handful of weeks before, and what they'd said to each other. She knew what they were doing. She wasn't going to stop them.

"There's an unsigned order on the desk," he said. He didn't need to specify which one. "It's... why. I tried to stop it but it was me against the rest of them. _All_ of them." He squeezed her hand, and she nodded.

"Write me, in a few years?" she asked. "Once everything's calmed down." Once she was secure in her position as queen.

"I will," he promised. "We have to go, Tilly, I'm--"

"I know," she said, and kissed his cheek before looking up at the witchers behind him. "You take care of him," she said firmly. "I'm trusting you to do that."

"We'll protect him with our lives, if necessary," Geralt said immediately.

"But hopefully just keep him from getting in bar fights or some shit," Lambert added, and Mathilde smiled.

"All right," she said, and gently pushed Julian back towards them. "Go. I'm asleep, after all."

She turned and retreated to her bedroom, closing the door softly and firmly, and Julian was overwhelmed with love and grief for a moment before Vesemir's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Come, Julian," he said, and Julian nodded and resumed his protected position as the crept to the servant's corridors to make their way to the king's chambers while hopefully avoiding most of the guards. It _did_ necessitate cutting through the kitchen, however, which was where Julian was most concerned about this plan, as there was generally someone in the kitchen at any given hour of the night, as far as he could tell. When he'd been younger, he'd sneak down there in the middle of the night sometimes, just to watch them make bread for the next day, or beg a bit of food if he'd not been allowed supper.

"Let me go first," he said when they neared the bottom of the stairs. "There won't be guards down here. I don't want to have to kill anyone here."

"We have ways of avoiding that, pup," Vesemir said. "But if you think you can trust them, we'll trust you."

Julian swallowed hard and nodded, leading the way into the kitchen.

There were only four people there - the head baker and two of her apprentices, and a stablehand who seemed to be flirting with her while eating leftovers from supper - and all of them looked up at the sound of the crown prince and his four personal guards entering the kitchens. Something they had no reason whatsoever to be doing at this time of night, with drawn swords, packs, and traveling gear. There was a long pause, during which Julian tried to think of what to _say_.

But the head baker was a kind woman named Martha, who had taught him the bare basics of breadmaking even if he'd never made a loaf in his life, when he was small and lonely, and she eyed the five of them critically before pointedly turning back to her dough.

"D'you hear that, Markus?" she asked pointedly, causing the stablehand to jump slightly. "Mice in here again, I'll wager. Remind me to get another mouser in here, old Dusty's not as fast as he used to be."

The two apprentice bakers nodded and returned to their work. Markus looked from Martha to Julian and his entourage before realization seemed to flood across it and he too turned back to his food.

"Right you are, Miss Martha," he said easily. "Can't have mice in the kitchens."

Julian felt his heart swell. He would not have been a good king but he had apparently been a good enough prince to have earned this sort of understanding and loyalty.

"Thank you," he whispered, and waved the witchers on, resuming his spot between them.

He almost didn't hear Martha's soft, "Good luck, Master Julian," as they ducked out of the kitchens, but he cradled that soft kindness close to his heart.

Hopefully when news of the King's death spread, they wouldn't feel any guilt for having let them pass without raising concerns with the guard. Hopefully they wouldn't regret this kindness when they knew what he'd done after.

He barely processed moving through the narrow servant's corridors until they were outside his father's rooms. There were two guards standing outside the door who didn't even have a chance to respond before Geralt and Lambert had cut them down.

Geralt stopped before opening the door and turned back to Julian. "Your mother?" he asked, seemingly having only just thought that they might have to do this without waking her. Julian shook his head.

"She stays in her own rooms," he said. "Let's go."

They entered quickly and quietly, passing through the sitting room into the bedroom, where the king slept in a lavish bed that put Julian's to shame. Geralt and Lambert flanked either side, and Geralt put his blade to Tomasz's throat, then looked up at Julian and didn't move. None of them did.

They were waiting for his _permission_ , he realized after a second's confusion. It was his father they were about to kill. He was an abusive, cruel, genocidal son of a bitch, but Julian still hesitated. They could wake him first, Julian could make sure he knew exactly who killed him and why. He could feel fear and pain going into his death, which wouldn't make up for the years of abuse Julian suffered, but might make _Julian_ feel better.

Or he could have Geralt kill him like this. Asleep. Peaceful. He probably wouldn't have time to feel fear because Julian knew that his witchers would be efficient.

 _Wake him up_ , part of his mind prompted him to say.

"Just finish it," Julian's mouth whispered when he opened it.

Lambert scowled, but Geralt just nodded, flipped his grip on his blade, and drove it down through Tomasz's heart, then pulled it out. Tomasz's eyes flew open and he gurgled, a look of shocked confusion on his face, before the life drained quickly from his eyes and his chest stopped rising.

Julian let out a shaky exhale, willing his stomach not to turn. The bastard deserved it, deserved worse than a quick death that barely woke him from sleep, but it was still a man dead on Julian's go-ahead. For the greater good, maybe, but still dead.

"You all right?" Eskel asked quietly, and Julian nodded. Then shook his head. Then nodded again.

"Let's... let's just go," he said finally. "Before someone goes down the hall and sees the guards."

He turned from the body in the bed and followed his witchers out of the room.

**

Honestly, Julian didn't really process most of the rest of their escape. There were another three guards that they had to kill, but otherwise they made it out without difficulty or raising an alarm, and they slipped into the city and out the far side without pause.

By the time dawn broke, Julian was more or less dead on his feet, and barely noticed when they broke off the road and into some woods, until he was tugged to a stop and Lambert was coaxing his pack off his back.

"Come on, you need some rest," he said, and Julian just nodded and let himself be somewhat manhandled onto a makeshift bedroll made of the witchers' cloaks. "We'll wake you up when we need to move again." Julian shut his eyes for just a moment.

The sun was high overhead when he opened them again.

"I still think staying together would be a better plan," Lambert was saying. "What happens if something goes wrong and one of us is _alone_?"

"None of us are going to be alone," Vesemir responded firmly. "We'll be in pairs. Switch the pairs up when we meet up, keep Julian moving between groups. If his sister is the kind of woman he thinks she is, there won't be nearly as an intense hunt for us as there should be, but she has to do enough to not raise suspicions she knew anything about it. And witchers are rare enough we'll attract trouble and attention traveling four together."

"So where are we actually _going_ with all this cloak and dagger?" Julian asked sleepily, stretching to try to unwind the tension in his back from sleeping on the ground.

"Did we wake you up?" Geralt asked, seeming concerned by the possibility. Julian smiled and shook his head.

"Just woke up on my own," he said. "But it sounds like you've got an actual plan for what we do now?"

"Kaer Morhen," Vesemir responded. "Even once Szymon hears about what happened last night, I doubt he'd expect us to return to Kaedwen. it's defensible if we know to fear an attack, and there are ways out, into the mountains, where we'd be able to find our way down other ways, if it came to that."

"Familiar territory," Julian agreed. "Probably for the best, at least until we come up with something better."

"Also," Vesemir continued, "you'll have to change your name."

Julian blinked. "I... will?"

"None of our names are widely known," Eskel said. "I doubt anyone who would actually give up information back in the palace even knew our names. But _you_... well. Everyone in Kerack knows your name."

"So a young man named Julian traveling with any powerful warriors or witchers would be suspect, once the news starts to spread," Julian finished for him with a sigh. "Well, I never much liked being Prince Julian of Kerack anyway, might as well ditch the 'Julian' along with the 'Prince of Kerack'."

"You know what you'll pick?" Lambert asked.

"Not a clue!" Julian replied chipperly. "I'll let you know when I decide."

Geralt came to sit next to Julian with some dried meat and a waterskin, as well as a crude map that it looked like they'd drawn themselves. For all it was bare bones, it was surprisingly accurate, as far as Julian could tell.

"We're thinking of traveling along this route," Geralt said as Julian gnawed on the jerky and watched his finger trace along the paper. "With some diversions when there's a few towns in an unlikely direction or another. Just to try to shake off anyone trying to track us."

"Looks like a long trip," Julian commented, tracing the path with his own finger. "Will we make it before winter?"

Vesemir and Eskel were both grimacing when he looked up at them.

"If it was just us, yes," Eskel said after a moment. "But..."

"We have you," Geralt finished, and lit the map on fire with a gesture, burning it to ash. "And we wouldn't change it. But you'll slow us down."

"Is there anywhere safe we can winter, if we don't make it?" Julian asked. The uncomfortable silence that came after that question was answer enough. "I see," he said, and nodded to himself. "Okay. Well, I'll just have to be as strong as I can be, and know that I can rest a bit when we've reached Kaer Morhen. Right?"

Lambert, Geralt, and Eskel all looked to Vesemir to validate this option, and Vesemir nodded wearily.

"Ideally, yes," he agreed. "But if we don't make it because you got injured or sick or any such thing, I don't want to hear you blaming yourself, do you understand?"

Julian wanted to kiss the old witcher square on the lips for being so explicitly concerned that he _didn't_ blame himself for any delays that might arise due to him being only human and them being so much more.

"I understand," he said solemnly, though he knew he wouldn't actually be able to stop from doing it internally. Hey, as long as Vesemir didn't _hear_ it...

"Right," Vesemir sighed, leaving Julian with the distinct feeling that the elder wolf had already worked out his plan. "Well, let's get packed up. We need to cover as much ground as possible."

It didn't take long for them to get on the road again, and Julian found himself walking next to Geralt as they made their way down the road, still - temporarily - traveling all together. He fiddled with the medallion around his neck, then realized what he was playing with and pulled it off with a soft distressed noise.

"Geralt, I can't believe I _forgot_ ," he exclaimed. "This is yours, we're all free now, you deserve it back!"

Geralt stared at the medallion that Julian had shoved into his hands for a moment, thoughtfully, then very gently looped the chain around Julian's neck again.

"Keep it," Geralt said. "For now, anyway. It'll be safe with you."

He didn't say anything else, just walked ahead, leaving Julian standing in the middle of the road, gobsmacked, for a good twenty seconds before he shook himself out of his little moment and ran to catch up. He clutched the medallion in his hand as they walked, Lambert and Eskel bickering about the details of some hunt they'd gone on together decades ago, trying to figure out why Geralt would want him to keep the medallion that had been made to _control_ them. That had been, for the last nearly a _year_ , been the symbol of the power over them Julian was at least required to pretend he had, despite the freedom he wanted to give them.

It may have been practical - he mostly wore it under his shirts, these days, but even if he didn't, it would be easier for people to dismiss his witchers as just strange people when they only had one sword each and none of them wore medallions, two very key descriptors for witchers in all the tales and legends. If Julian kept the medallion, that would help keep them from seeming too suspicious, if people were looking for four witchers and a prince.

But... well. Julian couldn't help but dream, just a little, that the reason was sentimental. That Geralt let him keep it so that if anything separated them, Julian would have something to remember them by.

It was unlikely, but he could dream.

"I suppose I'd better practice my folk songs before we get to the next town," Julian commented aloud, though he didn't expect a response.

Still, a response he got when all of them frowned back at him and Lambert asked, "Uh, _what_?"

"Well, what kind of person travels, _on foot_ , with a _lute_ , a notoriously delicate and difficult to maintain instrument?" Julian asked. His wolves stared back at him wordlessly, and Julian groaned. "Oh, gods, you're lucky I love you all," he muttered. "A bard. Travels with such a particular instrument. And bards tend to _perform_ when they stop in towns, to earn money. So, logically, if we're trying to divert people from looking for four witchers and a prince, we provide them with two witchers and a bard. Totally different situation, and one no one would expect a prince to be found in."

"Don't bards get _attention_?" Lambert asked. "Sounds like it goes against our whole plan to, y'know, fucking _lay low_ so we don't get caught and executed?"

"Well, true," Julian admitted. "But, again, if I can practice and be good enough to pass muster at a tavern, not only will that be an extra source of income to help us get by on the trip, but it will convince anyone who knows what I look like that I'm _not_ Prince Julian."

"Why, because you're so non-musical?" Lambert teased.

"Because most nobles don't bother learning such a complicated instrument as a lute, for one," Julian said. "But _also_ because from what I've gathered, being an amateur bard trying to make their way in the world is... embarrassing, quite often." He grinned lopsidedly. "No one expects a Crown Prince to be willing to humiliate himself in front of anyone, let alone regular people. Most of these people don't _know_ me. They don't know how different I am from my father."

"So," Eskel mused, "a cheerful, empathetic, amateur bard comes through, accepting any humiliation he might experience from his lack of experience, and people are disinclined to connect you to Prince Julian, even if you're traveling with witchers."

" _Precisely_ ," Julian said.

"It's not a bad idea," Vesemir agreed, though he seemed a bit reluctant. "It's a lot of drawing attention, true, but that alone is likely to dissuade anyone who might think you'rePrince Julian."

"Could backfire," Geralt pointed out. "Drawing attention, even under a different name, could get you recognized."

" _Could_ backfire," Julian said. "Not _will_. Anyway," he added, "I'm not actually as easy to recognize as you lot. _I'm_ just some kid with brown hair and blue eyes. You four are the ones who are likely to be recognized, given how rare witchers are."

"Hmm," Geralt said.

"Well, can't deny a little extra money wouldn't go amiss," Vesemir sighed. "We won't have time for many contracts, can't risk injuries and needing recovery time. If it causes trouble, though, you'll stop," he told Julian firmly.

"Yes, sir," Julian agreed, nodding firmly. "Thank you. I know I'm going to be a bit of a burden just because I don't know what I'm doing and need extra protection since I can't exactly protect myself the way you all can. I'd like to be able to be useful _somehow_."

"You'll learn, pup," Vesemir assured him, not looking back at him. "Never you fear."

That night, Julian was exhausted, but he made a point to pull out his lute and check the tuning anyway. He ran through a series of chords and fingerings to warm up, as his instructor had taught him, years ago, then shifted into a relatively simple ballad that he could remember, singing softly along with his music as the witchers checked over their gear and skinned the rabbits Geralt had caught. He segued - not as smoothly as a professional might, but smoothly enough for a country tavern - into another song, and another, playing until his fingers ached, and he could barely push down on the strings.

"Food's ready," Geralt said, holding out a knife with half a rabbit skewered on it. Julian set his lute aside, clenching and unclenching his left hand to try to keep it from cramping.

"Thanks," Julian said, forcing a smile past the grimace of pain. He had to push his limits so that his muscles would strengthen and his fingers would callous properly, but damn, it was painful in the meantime.

Once he'd taken the rabbit with his less-cramped hand, Geralt sat in front of him, reached out, and took Julian's left hand in both of his. Julian frowned, confused, until Geralt's thumbs pressed firmly but carefully into the muscles of his palm. The sound Julian made was unfit for mixed company, which they thankfully were not in, and he struggled not to drop the knife or the rabbit.

" _Fuck_ , Geralt," he breathed. "All the riches in Kerack for you to _not_ stop."

"Hmm," Geralt hummed, though he sounded amused, and Julian thought he could see the hint of a smile in Geralt's eyes. "All the riches in Kerack aren't yours anymore."

"You're right. _Damn_ , well, I'll think of something." He huffed a laugh. "Think you can do my feet next?"

Lambert cursed across the fire.

"Are your feet okay?" he asked, to Julian's confusion. "Blisters? We gotta treat that, if they get too bad and aren't covered properly, you could get an infection and be laid up for weeks if it gets bad. If you turned your ankles at all, any pain'll get worse if we don't wrap it."

"Hell, I didn't think of that," Vesemir said calmly, and shook his head, apparently exasperated with himself. "Sing out, Julian, can't have you off your feet too long."

"Oh," Julian said. "No, nothing yet, though there's a spot on the bottom of my foot that might develop into one in the next day or two. Mostly they're just a bit achy."

Lambert shoved the last of his food into his mouth and stood, wiping his hands on his trousers and shooing Geralt out of the way and taking his spot. "Which foot?"

"I can take my own boots off," Julian protested.

"Eat your fucking dinner, your worship," Lambert snapped. "Which. Foot."

Julian stuck his tongue out and plopped his left foot into Lambert's lap, carefully pulling meat off his skewered rabbit as Lambert unlaced and removed his boot and woolen stocking. The cooling air on his foot was nice after the damp warmth of his boot, and Lambert poked a particularly reddened spot on the ball of his foot with the tip of his finger.

"Right there?" Lambert asked, glancing up at Julian, who nodded. "I'll wrap it tomorrow with a bit of linen, if it's snug enough without cutting into your foot, it should keep it from getting much worse."

"Between the inevitable foot blisters and working on callousing my fingers for my lute, I'm going to be a tender delicate flower for the next couple of weeks," Julian said dryly, sliding the last of the rabbit meat off the knife, tossing the bones into the fire. "I hope you're prepared to be patient with me if I'm a whimpering mess for a little while in a few days."

"You'll be with me and Lambert for the first couple of weeks," Vesemir said. "You'll learn to push through it. All my boys did."

"Vesemir's a bit of a harsh taskmaster when he wants to be," Eskel explained. "Though I doubt he'll be as hard on you as he was on us."

"Not training him to be a witcher, so no," Vesemir agreed. "But I'll push you anyway. Keep complaining to a minimum, but if it keeps your feet moving, we'll manage."

"Wait, is _that_ why you never told me to shut up like the other instructors?" Lambert demanded.

"You always kept moving for longer when you could bitch about it," Vesemir said with a shrug. "Got more out of you that way."

"Mother _fucker_!" Lambert sulked half-heartedly as his brothers laughed at him. Julian tried very hard not to, but was largely unsuccessful. "Here I thought you were _sympathetic_ , but you were just sneaking more work outta me. Bastard."

"That's Swordmaster Bastard to you, pup," Vesemir said mildly, a twinkle in his eye.

Lambert's exasperated swearing rose up over the fond laughter of the group and echoed into the woods as the moon rose.

**

Two days later, Julian's fingertips were near constantly aching, he had developed five blisters on his feet, and Eskel and Geralt were splitting off to travel separately from them for a few weeks.

They stood at a crossroad, Julian's arms wrapped around Eskel's neck.

"Be careful," he whispered, willing himself not to cry. He was capable of not crying, he knew from far too much experience, but he was struggling anyway. (Perhaps the pain of worry and the impending ache of missing them was a little different from the humiliation and physical pain Tomasz had inflicted on him.)

"We will, Julek, I promise," Eskel murmured back, his low voice rumbling through his chest and into Julian's. "Behave for Vesemir." Julian nodded into Eskel's shoulder. "And don't let Lambert get into too much trouble."

"Oh, Eskel, I'm only _human_ ," he protested with a weak smile. Eskel chuckled.

"Fair. But keep an eye on him. I worry. We haven't been apart like this in years."

"I will," Julian promised, giving him one last squeeze before unwinding his arms and lowering himself off his tip-toes. Eskel ruffled his hair and stepped back, letting Julian pull Geralt into a hug, too.

"You two _have_ to come back, you hear?" Julian murmured. He knew all four of them could hear it, but it was important.

"You three have to, too," Geralt replied softly, burying his nose in the crook of Julian's neck and breathing deeply.

"Okay," Julian agreed with a watery laugh. "Basically we _all_ have to get to the meeting place in one piece, huh? I'll promise if you'll promise."

"I promise," Geralt said, so seriously, almost before Julian finished speaking. "I promise we'll be there."

"I promise, too," Julian replied, and kissed Geralt's cheek before he finally pulled back. "Hopefully with a new name and a couple of performances under my belt."

"I look forward to it." Geralt smiled, nodded to Vesemir and Lambert, and headed down the road with Eskel. It felt so unfinished, so anticlimactic. That couldn't _possibly_ be all there was to say, when there was no actual guarantee they'd all make it to the next meeting place. Julian was struck by the urge to chase the two witchers down and demand something more lingering and wistful, but he didn't move.

"Come on, kid," Lambert said, slinging his arm around Julian's shoulders and pulling him to follow Vesemir down the other road. "How do you feel about _Edwin_?"

"Absolutely _not_ ," Julian protested, sounding offended. "'Edwin', Lambert, _really_? Do I _look_ like an Edwin to you?"

"No," Lambert admits solemnly, "but I don't think you want to run around calling yourself 'Margaret', do you?"

"I'll have you know I could _absolutely_ pull Margaret off if I wanted to," Julian declared with a smile, the ache of his blistered feet barely noticeable for the moment. He _knew_ what Lambert was doing, of course - trying to distract him and cheer him up by being ridiculous. But just because he knew didn't make the gesture any less appreciated, or less effective. "I was thinking about trying Finnick, what do you think?"

"Little too 'humble farm hand' for you, buttercup," Lambert said. "Anyway, I knew a Finnick once, about thirty years ago? Fuckin awful cheat at cards."

" _You_ cheat at cards, pup," Vesemir pointed out.

"Yeah, but I do it _well_!"

"So _not_ Finnick then," Julian agreed with a laugh. "Fine. Vesemir, what do you think?"

Vesemir sighed.

Julian still felt a mournful little ache at the absence of Geralt and Eskel, but his wolves kept him steady until he could bear it again. Just one of the many reasons he loved them, and one of the many reasons all this trouble was worth it.

If he could spend the rest of forever with his wolves, doing things like listening to Vesemir very calmly rile Lambert up over choosing appropriate names, he could die a happy man.

**

They'd been split off from Eskel and Geralt for three days before they found themselves approaching the first town Vesemir had deemed safe to stop in since they'd left the palace. The promise of things like 'a roof' and 'a bed' were calling to Julian, and he was more than a little eager to get to town and take advantage of those things. A bath and some different food and maybe some ale would also be nice, but Julian felt like he could stand missing out on those if he could just sleep in a bed.

Still, even his eagerness got put to the side when they turned a corner out of a wooded area in the early afternoon and were treated to a vast rolling field of wildflowers stretching out into the distance. It was a riot of yellows and purples and reds, with the odd patch of white or blue here and there, and Julian just wanted to spend a week cataloguing them all and making flower crowns and lying down and watching the clouds pass by overhead framed by flower petals.

" _Oh_ ," Julian whispered, coming to a stop without thinking about it. "Oh, Vesemir, can we stop for just a little while? I don't think I've seen anything so beautiful in my whole life."

"A little while," Vesemir agrees after a moment's thought. "An hour at most, if we want to reach town early enough to get a bed and not a hayloft."

"Thank you!" Julian called over his shoulder, already running out into the field as if his feet and legs _weren't_ aching more than he'd ever ached in his life. There was a particular flavor of pain that came from hard work and exertion, Julian had learned. While it was nothing like the agony of being whipped, or having his father twist his wrist so hard that his wrist fractured, the ache in his legs and feet throbbed and lingered in a way that was both satisfying and excruciating.

Which was the _only_ reason Julian ran deep into the wildflowers, picked a spot on a small hill, and flopped down to the ground. His boots and stockings were removed with all haste to let his feet air out a bit, and he flopped back in the flowers and grasses with no small amount of relief. The _only_ reason.

...Well, the only _excuse_ he'd give, anyway. Really he just wanted to lay in the flowers and stare up at the sky like he was in a storybook, and dream the world was simple and beautiful and safe. But that felt a bit silly, and a bit naive, so he wouldn't admit to it out loud to his witchers.

A shadow fell over his face, and he looked up to see Vesemir standing over him, looking down at him with a faintly bemused expression.

"Comfortable?" Vesemir asked.

"Exceedingly," Julian answered, and closed his eyes. He couldn't nap, he was pretty sure if he tried, he would be none-too-gently woken up by Vesemir or _extremely_ non-gently woken up by Lambert. Perhaps by being gently lifted and cradled to Lambert's chest until Lambert reached a stream and dropped him in.

Not that Lambert had done that two days ago or anything when Julian nodded off during a break for lunch or anything. (Retribution would not be swift, but oh, it would be thorough.)

Julian heard Vesemir take a seat nearby, rummaging in his pack a bit but otherwise just sitting back and enjoying the break like Julian was. He couldn't hear Lambert but assumed there was nothing to worry about if Vesemir was relaxed. Or as relaxed as he ever got. Julian had asked once if Vesemir ever took time to relax, about a month after the witchers had been given to him. Vesemir's response was that it was his job to stay on alert so that sometimes his boys could relax.

"You can't possibly _never_ relax, though," Julian had protested.

"Well, since Kaer Morhen was sacked, I don't have as many chances," Vesemir told him. "But these days, I relax when I'm home and I have all my boys under one roof."

Julian hadn't asked how many years it had been since that had been possible

He was startled out of his thoughts by an armful of yellow flowers being dumped on him without fanfare.

"Buttercups for Buttercup!" Lambert said, pleased with himself for reasons that likely would only make sense to him. Julian laughed anyway, covered in the little yellow blossoms.

"You could've at _least_ woven them into a flower crown first," Julian says, playing at petulance even as he started on the process himself.

"But why bother when you'll almost certainly want to redo it yourself after?" Lambert teased, and flopped to the ground on the other side of Julian from Vesemir.

"...Fine, you _might_ have a point," Julian muttered, looking down at his hands where he was weaving the stems together. Vesemir chuckled and plucked one of the flowers from Julian's hair, twirling the stem between his fingers.

"You know, in one of the old dialects, buttercups were called jaskiers," he said, thoughtfully. Julian hummed.

"Jaskier the Bard. Has a good ring to it," Lambert agreed.

"Jaskier," Julian tried, rolling the sound around in his mouth. "Hmm. I'll definitely put it on the shortlist."

They didn't move on until he had adorned them all with flower crowns, even though it took longer than an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, no cliffhanger? :D
> 
> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> Comments and kudos are the nectar of the gods


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a bit late, I legit forgot it was Friday already XD

"I think I might be sick," Jaskier the bard said very quietly as he clutched his lute too tightly against his chest and stared out at the crowd of slightly drunk, rather belligerent townspeople.

"You're gonna be fine," Lambert assured him. "You've been practicing, you sound good."

"This is just... there are so many _people_ ," he said. "I didn't realize there would be so many people."

“And none of ‘em have any idea who you are, beyond some kid with a lute. No expectations. They might not even expect you to be _good_.”

Jaskier shot Lambert an exasperated look. “Is that supposed to be _comforting_?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lambert says with a grin. “If they think you’re gonna be shit, then even something mediocre would exceed their expectations, and you’re _good_.”

Despite his best efforts, Jaskier could not argue with that logic. If they expected nothing, the only way to go was _up_ in their estimations. He tried to smooth his hair a bit and straightened his doublet, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

“Right,” he said, swallowing down another wave of anxious nausea and forcing a smile. “How do I look?”

“Terrified,” Vesemir said bluntly. “You’re still a kid, though, so it’s not so unbelievable you’re still getting over stage fright at this point.”

“Great,” Jaskier replied with a half-hearted chuckle. “Well, nothing for it. Wish me luck!” 

“Break a leg, buttercup,” Lambert said with an approving grin. Vesemir grunted, but nodded agreement and shared a brief, rare-on-the-road smile with Jaskier as the young man steeled himself to step those few feet up onto the little raised platform that passed as a stage and play for the masses.

When he finally did, Jaskier found that, by and large, most of the masses did not give a rat’s arse about the new bard. It was a bit insulting to be thought so little of that you don’t gather any attention, but on the bright side, fewer people would be paying attention to Jaskier’s _music_ , at least until he had a chance to find his feet. He swallowed hard, considered introducing himself, but ultimately just started playing the first song to pop into his mind. A simple little love song about a blacksmith and a shepherdess, not even one of the raunchier ones. It didn’t garner _much_ in the way of applause, but he was mostly ignored, and honestly he’d take that over having rotten fruit at him, which he was told oftentimes happened.

He played satisfactorily enough that he was largely ignored or apathetically applauded until the guests started getting drunker, and asking for specific songs, loudly and obnoxiously. It went well enough until they asked for a song he didn’t know.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” he said as he was soundly booed, trying to placate the group of men who’d made the request. “I haven’t had a chance to learn that one yet. Perhaps a different song?” A few half-eaten chunks of bread were lobbed at him, and he ducked with an indignant yelp. “Un _called_ for!” he shouted back against the jeers as he did his best to Not Flee Simply Walk Quickly from the stage to tuck himself behind Lambert with a scowl.“So much for low expectations being easy to rise above.”

“It’s probably a newer song,” Lambert assured him. “I didn’t recognize it either. They’re just drunk assholes, you did good up ‘til then.”

“I guess,” Jaskier grumbled, staring mournfully down into the mug of ale Vesemir wordlessly slid in front of him. “I’d just hoped... maybe it would’ve gone really well, so that I wouldn’t be so scared next time.”

“You got through tonight,” Vesemir grunted. “Likely tomorrow’ll be better. They might not throw any bread at all.”

“Yeah, they might throw rotten cabbage,” Jaskier muttered darkly, drawing a bark of laughter from Lambert.

“If anyone in the next crowd has rotten cabbage, I’ll sniff ‘em out before they get the chance to throw it, how’s that?” Lambert asked, still grinning. Jaskier let out an irritated little huff, and took a long drink of his ale.

“ _You_ are mocking me, sir,” he declared, then turned to Vesemir. “He’s _mocking_ me! These are the manners you teach them?”

“They had a different instructor for manners,” Vesemir replied, straight-faced. “I just taught them how to stab things to death.”

“I am feeling _distinctly_ unappreciated,” Jaskier said with a sigh, but he smiled anyway. "Up to bed soon?" he asked. "I'm about ready to fall over."

"Come on, pup," Vesemir pushed himself to his feet. "Lambert'll settle the tab."

* * *

"Jaskier's a good name," Geralt said when they met again. "Suits you."

"I'm glad you think so." Jaskier beamed.

* * *

Jaskier's legs and feet acclimated to walking at some point. He wasn't really quite sure when, to be honest. One morning he woke up and pushed himself to his feet and just... didn't groan in pain. He was quiet and thoughtful for most of the morning, only speaking up to try to reassure Eskel and Geralt that he was fine, just thinking about some things. They seemed uncertain, but didn't press.

Not aching meant he'd started properly acclimating to the new life that he had found himself in. It was a good thing, truly. He was happy and not living in fear of his father. He was traveling with his witchers, the odd little pack that he'd been adopted into, and he was singing and performing, and his legs were a little sore but didn't _ache_ this morning.

It was absolutely terrifying, and he couldn't understand why.

He turned it over in his head as the three of them walked, heading to a nearby town that purportedly had some kind of monster problem that Eskel or Geralt could probably deal with and be paid for. He was living a life that was perhaps not _exactly_ how he'd absently dreamed when he was younger - what with the regicide and the witchers and everything - but he was living a life much closer to that dream than he'd ever had any reason to expect he could get.

He was free. He was really, truly free. It wasn't a dream that would end when the sun rose, and while they were being cautious, they were out of Kerack, which was a stupid tiny little country that very few people outside of it actually cared about, so that plus, again, the regicide, meant he was probably mostly safe from being captured and dragged back to his old life. Tomasz was dead and could never hurt him or Mother or Tilly again. He didn't have to be king or heir or _Julian_ , he could just be... Jaskier the bard, traveling the world with his best friends, the wolves of Kaer Morhen.

And now that he had it, he had no idea what to do with it.

"Is it normal to feel like the world's about to end when something _good_ happens?" Jaskier asked aloud sometime around midday.

"I don't know if we're really the best people to ask about _normal_ ," Eskel began uncertainly.

"Yes," Geralt answered at the same time.

Eskel's head all but _whipped_ towards Geralt, and he frowned with concern as they walked next to each other, the expression twisting his scars into something that would look intimidating, if you didn't know Eskel. Jaskier, thankfully, did, and just found the expression sweet.

"...Normal for us," Geralt clarified, though that didn't seem to improve Eskel's mood.

"So, it's a witcher thing?" Jaskier offered, trying to get Geralt to talk and hopefully set Eskel's mind at ease.

"Hmm," Geralt responded. There was a long pause, their boots on the dirt path the only sound that Jaskier, at least, could hear. He wondered if those distant woods had birdsong echoing right now. He wondered if his witchers could hear it from here, if so.

"It's a... hurt people thing," Geralt said slowly, like he was trying to arrange the concept into words for the first time. For all Jaskier knew, he was, especially since Eskel didn't look like he understood either. "For some people, good things don't... tend to happen. And when they do, they're taken away soon. So you expect it, if something goes right, and it makes everything feel like it's going to end."

They all walked silently for a little while, Jaskier turning the idea over in his mind and leaving the other two to their thoughts, before Eskel grabbed Geralt by the shoulders and stopped walking.

"You really feel that way?" he asked, and Jaskier looked between the two of them curiously.

"Sometimes." Geralt nodded, then shrugged. "I thought it was because of the mutagens, but... Julek-- _Jaskier_ , you didn't have a lot of good things, either. And a lot of hurt. So I think maybe it's that."

Eskel blinked for a moment, then looked over at Jaskier, his eyes soft. "Is that what it feels like?"

"Yeah," Jaskier said quietly. "I think so. Like destiny's going to find a way to... pull all this out from under me, even though I can't figure out how."

"Fuck destiny," Geralt said. "It doesn't get to take your good things." He reached up to squeeze Eskel's shoulder. "I'm fine. We're all fucked up." A beat. "Especially Lambert."

Eskel and Jaskier both laughed, and Jaskier reached out and shoved Geralt.

"You're an _ass_ , Geralt," Jaskier declared. "Lambert not even here to defend himself against your insults!"

"He's right, though," Eskel said, and jerked his head to get them both walking again. "Not about Lambert, about how we're all fucked up." He slung an arm around Jaskier's shoulders. "Even you, kid. So, probably feeling like everything's gonna go to hell is pretty normal for fucked up people like us."

"Well, to add to the list of confusing and fucked up feelings, that both does and doesn't make me feel better," Jaskier said, smiling wryly. He looked over at Geralt, around where Eskel still had him tucked up against his side, and smiled when their eyes met. "Thanks, Geralt."

"Hmm," Geralt said.

* * *

"Hmm."

Geralt frowned down at the notice Lambert had brought from the noticeboard and pursed his lips. They'd stopped in a little town just east of Hagge, and Jaskier was all but sucking down a bowl of mutton stew before the evening crowd started arriving. He'd managed, somehow, to convince the innkeeper to give them a room for the night if he played, and he didn't want to end up needing to take a break for a meal too soon after starting.

"Whassit?" he asked, his mouth slightly full, and earned an exasperated glare for his efforts.

"Swallow your food, that's disgusting," Geralt said. Jaskier rolled his eyes slightly and made a bit of a _production_ of chewing thoroughly and swallowing.

"Contract," Lambert explained while Jaskier chewed. "There's a pair of archgriffins one town south that have been attacking trade caravans. There's like three towns all chipped in, the reward could get us some supplies we really need."

"And dangerous enough without our proper supplies that we'd both have to go," Geralt grumbled. "No."

"Why not?" Jaskier asked, making sure to swallow before asking.

"Because he's an overcautious _idiot_ ," Lambert said, and punched Geralt in the shoulder. "Come _on_ , it'll be fine as long as we both go."

Geralt gave Lambert a look that was equal parts reproachful and doubtful.

"Look, we need as many supplies as we can get, don't we?" Jaskier asked. "Or at the very least the money to buy them. Right?"

"...Yes," Geralt admitted reluctantly.

"If there's two of you, would you be able to handle a pair of griffins without all the potions and stuff you used to have?"

"Yes." Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose like he was warding off a headache, and Jaskier found himself at a loss, unsure why he'd be this reluctant.

"Then why don't you want to take the contract?" he asked. Geralt scowled at the notice, then at Lambert, then up to the ceiling like he was praying for patience.

"Because it would put _you_ in danger."

And, well, that was news to _Jaskier_ , certainly. "How in the world would _you_ going on a hunt put me in any more danger than it usually does?" he asked. "All four of you have gone on hunts before while I've been traveling for you, I can't see how this is any different."

"Because it wouldn't be just Geralt or me," Lambert said, apparently taking a bit of pity on his brother's clear discomfort. "It'd be _both_ of us going on a hunt."

Jaskier looked at him blankly. Lambert reached over to lightly cuff him on the head.

"Ow, what was that for?"

"You're being thick, I'm trying to jostle the thoughts loose," Lambert shot back with a grin. "If we're _both_ on the hunt, buttercup, who's staying with _you_?"

"Ah," Jaskier said, the pieces slotting into place. "Well, yes, I suppose that would be a difficulty." He took his last bite of stew and fiddled with the spoon for a moment. If he could come up with an acceptable alternative to satisfy Geralt's nerves, they could meet up with Eskel and Vesemir in a week or so significantly richer than they were before. Given everything Vesemir had talked about needing to collect as they traveled in order to survive in an old ruined keep high in the Blue Mountains, that money would be a huge asset. "Well... why don't I go _with_ you, then?"

Both Lambert and Geralt looked concerned by that suggestion, though Lambert quickly shook that in favor of actually thinking it over. Geralt, though, just gave a sharp shake of his head.

" _No_ ," he said firmly. "If we had our horses still, we could sit you on one so they could run of with you if we gave the command, maybe, but... we don't. I'm not going to risk your life for a bag of damned _coin_ , after everything we've done to keep you safe."

"Yes, because starving or freezing to death this winter sounds like _much_ more fun," Jaskier drawled. Geralt rumbled discontentedly in his chest, and Jaskier sighed. "I really _do_ appreciate you trying to keep me safe, Geralt, I do. But I can't have one of you with me for the rest of my life."

Geralt muttered something that Jaskier could swear sounded like, "Try me," but refused to encourage his sulky stubbornness by responding to it.

"Well regardless, I have a performance that I owe tonight, so we can discuss this more afterwards," Jaskier said, standing as he polished off the last of his ale. "Lambert, _try_ to talk some sense into our darling wolf while I'm doing that, will you?"

Lambert toasted him with Geralt's mug and then downed it, to irritated protests that left Jaskier grinning as he trotted to the center of the room and started to play.

Performing hadn't _precisely_ gotten less terrifying since that first performance, but Jaskier found that the butterflies tried to _escape_ his stomach less, and that he was able to channel that nervous energy into the performance itself, going louder and longer and more enthusiastic. He'd improved over the past weeks, notably so, and the response from the audience, in turn, had improved as well. He'd even managed to learn a few new songs, including the one that had gotten him booed off stage the first night he performed.

He was always a little tired, they kept up a pretty brisk pace all day and walked through nearly all the daylight they had, most days, but he was beginning to earn the title of "bard" that he'd claimed for himself, he thought. He earned some money at it, anyway. And they were coming ever closer to the border with Kaedwen, at which point Vesemir had decided they'd stop separating and power through to Kaer Morhen, so what money any of them could earn before then was crucial. Which was why Lambert had grabbed the notice for that contract, and why Jaskier _had_ to convince Geralt that he'd be safe if the two witchers took the contract, whether they took him with them or not.

By the time Jaskier was done performing, his hands aching in a way that was surprisingly satisfying, both witchers looked irritable and tired. Jaskier looked them over when he reached the table after collecting the coins that had been tossed to him while he performed, and immediately shook his head.

"You're both ridiculous," he said. "Come on, upstairs and we'll sort this out so you can both stop being annoyed at each other."

"You're _not_ coming with us," Geralt said once the door to their room was closed.

"Ah, we came to a decision, did we?" Jaskier asked, packing his lute into its case and starting to undo his doublet.

"No, Geralt's trying to be a self-sacrificing _idiot_ in an attempt to both get his way and get us money," Lambert spat. " _His_ genius plan is to go off alone to do the contract."

"I'm stronger than the rest of you," Geralt sighed. Clearly they had already hashed out all these arguments while Jaskier was playing. "Faster, more sturdy. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, that's what you fucking said you were after you nearly _died_ trying to take out a giant nest of nekkers on your own!" Lambert retorted, all but spitting the words. "So don't fucking try telling me you'll be _fine_."

"Geralt, you can't go _alone_ ," Jaskier protested, cutting off whatever argument Geralt was going to shoot back at Lambert. "Vesemir said no unnecessary risks. If it's both of you I'm sure you'll be fine, but _you_ were the one who said it was dangerous enough you'd both have to go!"

Geralt did not seem particularly pleased by having his own words used against him, judging by the thundery glower he sent Jaskier's way. It was enough to make a less familiar man shit his pants, probably, but Jaskier knew the gentle kindness that lay below that fierce exterior, and was absolutely unfazed by said glower.

"Don't give me that look, Wolf, you're not that scary," Jaskier told him. "We _need_ that money. I know we're making better time than we feared, but we're still going to be reaching Kaer Morhen _very_ late in the year, we _need_ money for supplies if we're going to survive the winter. If _I specifically_ am going to survive the winter," he added pointedly. "So you either get comfortable letting me come and wait a safe distance away, or you get comfortable leaving me in town alone for a day, because you're doing the contract and you're doing it _with_ Lambert."

"I just... don't want you to get hurt," Geralt mumbled. Jaskier couldn't help but walk over to him and tip his chin up so he'd look at him.

"I know you don't," Jaskier admitted. "But we are so far from Kerack now, and I'd think the closer we get to Kaedwen, the more _you_ are in danger, not me."

"Maybe," Geralt allowed reluctantly.

" _And_ I'm already here working," Jaskier continued. "I can stay here, in this inn, for the two or three days it takes you to get there and back. I'll just sing and perform and not be at all someone anyone would suspect of being royalty because I put up with piss-poor beer and mediocre stew."

Geralt sighed. "Fine," he said. "I'll _think_ about it, let you know tomorrow."

"Thank _fuck_!" Lambert exclaimed, flopping back on the bed. "Can we get some sleep now and wake up to Geralt not being obscenely overprotective?"

"Ideally, yes, because I'm absolutely _beat_ ," Jaskier declared. "Boots off, pants off, let's just _sleep_ now so I'm functional in the morning."

* * *

In the end, Geralt decided he'd rather have Jaskier close by and away from other people than risk him being recognized and kidnapped or arrested while he and Lambert weren't there. It was a near thing, though, judging by his worry as the traveled towards where the archgriffins were likely nesting.

"You stay where we tell you and listen to anything we tell you to do," Geralt explained for the fifth time since they'd woken up that morning. "One of us tells you to run, you run."

"One of you tells me to hit the ground or climb a tree or dance a _jig_ , I do it," Jaskier continued, his voice sharpened by exasperation. Geralt's concern made sense, of course, considering Jaskier was rather weak and delicate compared to a witcher's constitution, but it was getting a _bit_ tiresome to have him fussing and repeating himself over and over. "Geralt, I understand. I understood when you said it this morning, and the last few times you've said it as we've been walking today."

Geralt grimaced and looked away, and Jaskier felt a twinge of guilt for snapping. Geralt was easily the most protective of the witchers when it came to Jaskier himself, and considering Lambert was essentially the baby of the group, for all he was a seasoned witcher on his own, it made sense Geralt would be particularly cautious for the two men under his protection.

"Geralt, I'm--" Jaskier started to apologize, but was interrupted by Lambert's return from tracking the archgriffins, bursting into the clearing at top speed.

"We're closer than we thought and they got a whiff of me," he said quickly, sliding to a stop. "Come on, we gotta go if we don't want them to get the jump on us on our way up. We're gonna have to stash Jaskier in a bush or something."

"A _bush_?" Jaskier asked incredulously, even as Geralt swore loudly.

"This is why I didn't want to bring him," Geralt snarled at Lambert, but he grabbed Jaskier's wrist (gently, always gently, even when he was in the worst mood) and stalked back the way Lambert came. "How far?"

"About a mile," Lambert answered. "The hill's pretty low, but the clearing is pretty sizeable. I wasn't expecting any elevation that low to be acceptable for Griffins, honestly, which is why it surprised me."

Geralt hummed in response, and both the witchers were silent as they moved through the trees. Jaskier took his lead from them and restrained himself from talking or asking questions. Eventually they ended up close to the edge of a clearing with a low hill nearby. There was a griffin on the top, looking alert, and a quick glance up verified there was a second circling the clearing warily.

Lambert gestured over to a spot near the edge of the woods where a boulder created a bit of an overhang, the long grasses from the clearing making it almost all the way to it. If Jaskier tucked himself under the overhang, he wouldn't be _invisible_ , but not only would he be harder to see, he'd have some minor protection from a griffin deciding to swoop on him, if they happened to notice him.

Geralt glanced into the clearing, then back at the little overhang, and nodded. He gestured for Jaskier to hide there, and Jaskier carefully tucked himself in the little spot, sticks and rocks pressing into his knees through the fabric of his trousers. Only once he was settled did Geralt gesture something to Lambert that had both of them moving forward into the clearing from different angles. They charged in at full speed up the hill, knowing they had no chance of staying hidden with the patrolling archgriffin above, and the fight started almost before Jaskier could process it.

Lambert engaged almost immediately with the archgriffin on the ground, trying to tear into its wings so it couldn't take off, while Geralt put his back to the other fight and tried to brace for an aerial attack from the second. Jaskier was struck immediately by how different this seemed from sparring in the salle back at the palace, how much more primal and fluid when they had the space to move and a monster to kill.

Jaskier was thinking that maybe he could put his literature studies to work turning stories of witcher prowess into poetry when things went altogether pear-shaped. Geralt still had his back to Lambert and his archgriffin, which couldn't get the space to take off and get in the air, when the archgriffin managed to clip Lambert with its wing, sending him flying a few feet away, and whirled to attack Geralt's back, just as _Geralt's_ archgriffin dove to try to rake at him with razor-sharp claws. Jaskier _knew_ he was supposed to stay quiet, not draw attention, let Geralt and Lambert do their job.

But in the space of an instant, he remembered Geralt's concern over taking the job, Vesemir's admonitions every time they were all together to be cautious considering their need for speed and their lack of proper potions. He had the mental image of Geralt torn apart from both sides before Lambert could get to him.

So he stood and all but screamed, " _Geralt, behind you_!"

Geralt whipped around - not towards Jaskier, thankfully, but towards the other archgriffin, and managed to throw up a sign to block the diving griffin while swinging an attack at the one on the ground. It gave him a moment to breathe as the flying target gained altitude again, and Lambert his feet under him to engage the grounded archgriffin again, dodging some sort of substance the thing spat at him.

Relief washed over Jaskier like a wave, until he realized that instead of resuming its assault on Geralt, the flying archgriffin had spotted him and apparently deemed him a much preferable target to the witcher with a sword and was diving towards him.

"Jaskier, _down_!" Geralt shouted as the monster dove toward him, and Jaskier managed to force his terror-paralyzed limbs into movement that didn't so much lead to him throwing himself to the ground as it did tripping over his own feet and falling backwards just in time to squeeze his eyes shut against far-too close claws heading directly for his face. There were two burning lines that flared into pain over his eye, then his back and the back of his head hit the ground hard, and he lay there dazed, feeling something wet (blood?) trailing down the side of his face and into his hair. Something screeched above him, and he just kept his eyes squeezed shut. If he was going to be eaten by an archgriffin, he knew now beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did _not_ want to be able to _see it coming_.

There was shouting and screeching for another few minutes, he guessed, and the burning lines on his face throbbed, drawing tears to his eyes that, when they spilled, made them sting and throb _worse_. Eventually, the screeching stopped, and there was the sound of two sets of feet all but _thundering_ towards him.

" _Jaskier_!" Geralt bellowed, sliding to a stop next to him and dropping to his knees.

"'M fine," Jaskier gasped, the movement of speaking causing a bit of movement that pulled painfully at what were undoubtedly cuts from the archgriffin's claws. The resulting wince did, as well. "Ow."

"Shit, that's a lot of blood," came Lambert's voice from further above him. Probably still standing, then.

"You've seen worse, head wounds bleed a lot," Geralt snapped, his voice tense and not sounding at all like he wasn't thinking the same thing. "Jaskier, open your eyes?"

Jaskier opened his eyes carefully, squinting up at the two worried witchers above him. His eyes focused easily on Geralt's face.

"Both eyes uninjured and functional," he declared breathlessly, resisting the urge to laugh with hysterical relief. Both Lambert and Geralt visibly relaxed, Geralt so much that he bowed over Jaskier's chest and briefly rested his forehead against Jaskier's sternum. Jaskier giggled despite himself and patted Geralt's head lightly. "Do you need hugs? I can provide hugs, if that will make you feel better. It might make me feel better. Melitele's tits. I feel like I'm tingling all over, is that normal?"

"Adrenaline," Lambert said. "You're okay, your body just got ready to fight or run and is now overwhelmed since you don't need to do either."

Geralt sat up and helped pull Jaskier into a sitting position, inspecting the claw wounds closely. "We're close to town, thankfully," he said. "We'll be able to clean them and stitch them up in short order. They'll scar, but probably not too badly."

"We'll match a bit, huh Buttercup?" Lambert offered, and ruffled Jaskier's hair gently. "That's not too bad. It'll be dashing, the ladies _love_ dashing."

"It didn't eat me," Jaskier said with a shaky laugh. "You don't need to reassure me. Not being eaten is _more_ than enough."

"Come on," Geralt rumbled. "Let's get back to town and clean you up so it doesn't get infected."

* * *

The stitches were almost ready to come out when they met back up with Vesemir and Eskel. Vesemir frowned at the sight of the two wounds over Jaskier's right eye and cheek, turning a disappointed scowl on the two witchers.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Archgriffins," Geralt said simply. "Mated pair. Took both of us, and he drew attention of one of 'em briefly."

"Kid probably saved Geralt's _ass_ , he means," Lambert said stubbornly. "Just a messy fight without potions. We _didn't_ fuck it up," he added, as if daring Vesemir to criticize them.

"I'm _fine_ ," Jaskier said. "Lambert had gotten knocked over and both of them were coming at Geralt at the same time and I didn't know if he could tell if the one behind him was coming for _him_ and not _Lambert_ , so I... yelled." He shrugged sheepishly. "So, it's a little bit my own fault. I was also the one who insisted we take the contract."

Vesemir narrowed his eyes, then pointed his finger in Jaskier's face. "Next time, you stay quiet or in town. None of us need your blood on our consciences. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Jaskier said meekly. Disappointing Vesemir sounded like the worst possible thing in the world in that moment. Vesemir grunted in response, and turned back to Geralt and Lambert asking them to recount their tactics. Jaskier turned to Eskel with a sheepish smile.

"Don't do that again, please," Eskel said, reaching out to gently take Jaskier's chin and tilt his head so he could examine the healing wounds. "Stitches and scars aren't the sort of thing you should have."

"It's not that bad, really," Jaskier said. "There was a lot of blood, but Geralt assures me that's normal for a head wound."

"He's right," Eskel admitted. "Still. I'd prefer not to ever see you covered in blood, if you don't mind."

"I'd rather not be again, if it's any consolation." Jaskier reached up to take Eskel's hand and squeeze it reassuringly. "And anyway, now we match, huh? Handsome rogues with dashing scars? The ladies will _swoon_."

Eskel made a face and turned away slightly, putting his scar out of Jaskier's line of sight.

"Hey," Jaskier insisted, tugging on Eskel's hand. "I mean it. You know I do. There are plenty of people out there who wouldn't give a shit about your scars. Who might even love them. Okay?"

"I know you do," Eskel said with a faint smile. "You're wrong, but it's sweet."

"Bah, you're ridiculous." Jaskier rolled his eyes melodramatically. " _Wrong_ , he calls me. As if I've ever been wrong in my _life_."

Then Lambert started arguing loudly about a tactic Vesemir disagreed with, and they were both diverted trying to make sure no one got too angry about something that wasn't worth being angry about.

* * *

Crossing the border into Kaedwen felt momentous, somehow.

Admittedly, none of them knew the exact point they went from northern Aedirn to southern Kaedwen, but they knew it was happening that day. They'd spent the night before in an inn that had overcharged them significantly, and from here on out, they would be camping until they reached Kaer Morhen. There was no turning back, even if there hadn't been since he gave Geralt permission to drive a sword through his father's heart.

Everything shifted from something that was laid back, in a certain way, to being intense all the time. Jaskier's stitches were out, and his lute largely packed away for the foreseeable future, as Vesemir was pushing them harder than they'd been going up to this point. Starting earlier, stopping later, only not stopping after dark because Vesemir wanted to press on Jaskier's training with the dagger one of them had procured from the Keracki royal armory when he'd gotten them the gear they had been lacking. They stopped in towns a few times for supplies, but never stayed the night. There were no more contracts, or nights playing in a tavern. Not only that, but the weather had turned, and the nights were getting increasingly colder. The witchers all made a point to keep an eye on Jaskier, and he'd started sleeping sandwiched between two of them every night in a way that would be quite pleasant if he weren't so stressed and exhausted every night.

Jaskier was basically in a constant state of being half-asleep by the time they neared the path up the mountain to Kaer Morhen.

They stopped in the last larger town before the mountain, still a few days away, and purchased a small wagon and a sturdy mule - whom Jaskier had promptly named Clover - in addition to many of the supplies they'd need. It wasn't a lot of supplies, admittedly, due to low supply in the town and low funds in their pockets, but it would at least help get them through the winter, Vesemir said.

Jaskier had his doubts about whether the witchers were really as confident as they seemed about their ability to collectively last through the winter, but he didn't want to make them any more anxious by pointing it out. They'd make it work. And if they didn't, dying in the cold stone keep of Kaer Morhen was a better end than any he would've faced in Kerack, so frankly he wasn't going to complain either way.

The first big snowstorm of the season hit when they were a couple hours out from the town at the base of the mountain, where they'd planned to get the last chunk of their supplies for the winter.

"We gotta push through," Lambert insisted as they took stock of the situation. "You know how the storms get here, if we don't push now the wagon might not make it up!"

"We've only got half the supplies we intended," Eskel pointed out. "We _need_ to make the last run we planned for!" Jaskier pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he shivered, wanting them to come to a decision one way or another so he didn't have to stand still in the snow. He couldn't really focus on Lambert and Eskel's argument, between the cold and the exhaustion and the way his toes were so damn numb from the cold.

" _Boys_ ," Vesemir snapped suddenly, the argument falling silent as the wolves all turned to their leader. "Thank you. Much as I don't like waiting, we _need_ those supplies, and we need to not push when Jaskier's near frozen stiff, the caves are warm enough for us, but not him in this storm."

Eskel and Lambert both turned to look guiltily at Jaskier, who waves minutely even as he shivers. "The w-wind's really m-making it worse," he forced out. And it _was_ , if it had just been cold he would've been chilled at worst, but the wind kept cutting through the layers of woolen clothing he'd managed to pick up like it was nothing.

"Come on, then," Geralt calmly told Clover, walking her up to Jaskier and pushing her lead in his hand. He stood blocking the worst of the wind for a moment and Jaskier leaned into his chest before something heavy dropped onto his shoulders and he looked up, startled, to find Geralt pulling his cloak snugly around Jaskier.

"Geralt," Jaskier started to protest, and Geralt shook his head.

"We'll move quicker off the road without you and the wagon," Geralt said, his voice as gentle as it could be to rise above the wind. "And then we'll be sheltering in the cave we told you about. You need it more than me right now."

Jaskier huffed, but was too cold and tired to argue, so he just nodded. Geralt pulled him into a brief hug, then jerked his chin to the others. Lambert and Eskel bundled in around him, and Lambert pulled their foreheads together with a small snarl.

"Anyone gives you shit, stab first and ask questions later," he told Jaskier. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Jaskier said, then leaned slightly sideways as Eskel tugged him into a one-armed hug.

"All right, pups, move out," Vesemir said, and the three witchers started marching east into the woods. He all but scruffed Jaskier, looking solemnly into his eyes. "You're more important than the supplies," he said firmly. "If something goes wrong, it comes down to it, we'll scrape by. You get to that cave, wagon or no."

"Yes, sir," Jaskier said, grateful both for the sentiment and the blossom of warmth it sparked in his chest. It may've only been in his mind, but he could swear he felt a little less cold for it. "You four better be there when I do."

"We will," Vesemir promised. "Town's about another hour and a half up the road. It's cold, but you've got enough layers you shouldn't have any serious trouble. Get there, get warm, worry about the rest of it once the storm's passed."

Jaskier nodded, watched his back disappear into the snow and trees, then tugged lightly at Clover's lead.

"Come on, darling," he said. "We'll get you to a nice warm stable soon as anything."

He couldn't quite tell how much time passed walking in the snowstorm, humming faintly to himself to keep his spirits up, but he thought it was rather closer to two hours before he finally stumbled into town, with Clover plodding determinedly along next to him. The inn was lit up in the stormy afternoon dark, and it took all of Jaskier's willpower not to leave mule and wagon in the innyard, instead pulling the wagon up under the overhanging eaves, making sure the tarp over the wagon was secure, and walking Clover to the stables and hitching her to a ring just outside.

"I'll send someone out to get you settled," he told her, stroking her neck. She nibbled delicately at his sleeve, which Jaskier took to be acceptance. Or maybe she was just hungry.

The handful of townsfolk who weren't at home seemed a bit startled to see someone stumble into the inn given the weather, but didn't pay him much mind otherwise. He shivered, glad to be in a warm building, and forced his stiff and aching legs to carry him to the bar where a slender woman with a rather intimidating expression stood.

"Can I help you, son?" she asked.

"A r-room?" Jaskier asked hopefully. "Some warm food, if you have any? And if someone could settle my mule in the stables..."

"Bennick!" she called, and a young man popped up from a table near the fire. "Mule in the stables, see to her."

"Yes, mam," he answered, and shrugged into a coat before pushing outside. The woman looked back at Jaskier, seeming to consider him for a moment. "Looks like an instrument case on your back there, you a bard?"

"Ah, well. Trying to be," Jaskier admitted. "Though just trying to get hold of some supplies, right now."

"Hmm." The woman eyed him for a moment, then nodded. "I'm Alma. You play for us tonight after you thaw out, for lunch tomorrow if you're any good, the room's yours for the night, and I'll put out word for anyone who has supplies to spare this late in the year."

Jaskier blinked, startled by the unexpected generosity, but nodded gratefully.

"Appreciate that, Miss Alma," he said, smiling as charmingly as he could through his weariness. His performance wouldn't be the best he'd ever given, but it didn't seem likely that a town like this got many bards through. Hopefully his lunchtime showing would be better.

He sat near the fire, letting the heat sink into his bones while he fiddled with the edges of Geralt's cloak, hoping that his wolves had found shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> Please forgive me for not having responded to all the LOVELY comments y'all left on the last chapter! While I've always been a "respond to all comments!" type of person, I've been getting so many from y'all that I'm a little overwhelmed! Please don't stop commenting, just forgive me if I don't get back to you in a timely manner. ^_^ They bring me joy and motivation to keep creating, even if it's just a little "extra kudos!" message, I can't even describe the serotonin boost they all give me.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! I know it's starting to go into TOTALLY DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS than the beginning felt, but I hope you're having fun anyway. We ain't done yet! ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last chapter we split the party and sent Jaskier alone into town! And many of you are understandably concerned about his well-being!
> 
> >:3
> 
> Enjoy.

The town - which was a generous description of the little community, where everyone probably knew everyone else - at the foot of the mountain was called Pinebough. Not the most creative of names, but it was not the most creative of locales. Jaskier was, according to one of the town aunties, the most exciting thing to happen since the witchers had left the mountains last.

"They used to come through every spring and every fall, you know, goin' too and from that keep of theirs in the mountain," one of them, told Jaskier over breakfast. "My mam remembered before the pogrom, of course, when there'd be a couple dozen at least, every season. Only a handful left now, and none up this mountain any more, not in years."

"Well, I hope I can change that," Jaskier said. "The... no one being up the mountain thing, that is. I'm heading up after I've played lunch."

"What kind of plan is that, 'specially so late in the year?" the talkative auntie asked suspiciously. "Boy like you, you'll freeze halfway up, or starve halfway through the winter."

"I've got a bit of a plan," he protested, hoping they wouldn't press the point. He wasn't in the mood to try to justify himself, especially when he was trying to keep it quiet that he had others with him, at least for now. "And... well, a fair amount of luck and hope, I think."

"Why would you want to set up in that mouldy old ruin instead of looking for work in town, anyhow?" one of the men asked.

"I'm not sure I see how it's any of your business," Jaskier snapped, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, gods, I'm... I'm sorry, I just... I'm not normally the sort to do that, it's just been a long journey. We're just trying to find somewhere safe to settle is all." He tried to twist a smile out of how he was feeling. The townsfolk looked at him suspiciously. "Er, _I'm_ trying to... can we just pretend I didn't say anything?"

"Leave the boy alone now, Helena," Alma said, setting down a couple of plates in front of the aunties, and everyone managed to look a bit sheepish. "There's a lot of bad in the world for folk to try to hide from. Ain't our job to go about interrogating them on it, hm?"

"It's all right," Jaskier insisted, smiling ruefully. "It _is_ a bit suspicious, after all. My... family. We escaped a rather bad situation. It's just hard to trust again after that, is all."

The townsfolk seemed to take that explanation as enough, and returned to their meals.

"Well, I'll see if my boys can get some things together for you," Helena said. "Magda, you've got some winter gear you haven't gifted out yet, don't you?" she asked the woman next to her, who nodded.

"Miss Alma already put word out, but I'll see if Elder Mattis knows of anything spare we might be able to part with," one of the men said, and suddenly breakfast with the lonely folks of Pinebough had turned into a flurry of planning how best to get Jaskier and his "folks" set up. Frankly, it was far more than Jaskier'd expected, and he found himself sitting rather silently gobsmacked through it all.

"You _really_ don't have to do all this," Jaskier insisted as everyone started rising to go about their day and see what they could do for him.

"Maybe not," one of the younger men, Jaskier was pretty sure he'd been called Kristoff, said with a shrug. "We all think you and your folks are a bit mad, going up to that old wolf den to set down roots. But if we're gonna see you off there, might as well give you a fighting chance of surviving the winter, right?"

"Right," Jaskier agreed, still reeling somewhat, only shaking out of his thoughts when Alma sat across from him, once the inn was empty.

"My family moved here ages back, when I was a bit more than a slip of a thing, from Novigrad," she said. "Had an uncle here, and after my da lost his job over some stupid landlord's dispute, we thought, may as well move back. But it means I've seen a bit more than these folk, usually." She leaned her arms on the table. "So, what are you hiding?"

"I... I'm sorry?" Jaskier asked, trying for innocent and probably only managing suspicious.

"You say you're running from a bad situation with _family_?" Alma asks, raising an eyebrow. "Never known a family of nobles to want to hide out in the depths of the mountains, away from all culture, fashion or civilization."

Jaskier's blood froze in his veins. "I never said anything about nobility," he managed to choke out.

"No, you didn't," Alma agreed. "But there's a way you lot carry yourselves. So. Truth now, or I tell the town you've been lying to them. Your choice."

Jaskier grimaced. He didn't think telling the _whole_ truth was going to do him any favors just now, but perhaps he could set Alma's fears at ease without telling everything.

"I... wasn't exactly the heir my father wanted," he said slowly. "To the point, apparently, that he tried to have me killed. So I fled, with a few people I trusted, and..." he spread his hands as if to say _now here we are_. "I swear, we just want somewhere out of the way to lay low and try to build some sort of new life," he finished, hoping that was enough for this stern, protective woman.

"Your father, is he going to send anyone after you?" she asked. Jaskier shook his head.

"No. I seriously doubt anyone would think to look for me anywhere near here," Jaskier admitted with a crooked smile. It's _true_ , even if he was obfuscating the truth a bit. Alma seemed to be relaxing a bit, nodding slowly.

"The people you left with, they're waiting for you outside town?"

"We thought it would draw less attention," Jaskier said sheepishly. "Plus, if only one scruffy bard is seen, there's less chance anyone puts me together with my past, even through rumors."

"Not an entirely bad idea," Alma admits, then stands. "Fine. You're still hiding something, that much seems clear, but I won't say you don't have a right to keep some secrets." She pats his shoulder as she passes, almost maternally. "But mind yourself, bard. If I think you're up to something, I'll send word to the king's men that there's signs of life up at the old witcher keep. They likely won't kill you straight off if you're not witchers, but I can imagine your past may catch up to you somewhat if that happened."

"Oh you have _no_ idea," Jaskier muttered once she'd headed back into the kitchen.

Despite his anxieties, Jaskier was actually a little sad to leave Pinebough that afternoon after he finished playing for the lunch crowd. Helena marched up with her grown sons in tow with some raw leather and wool that she _insisted_ Jaskier take, and her boys packed it in the wagon with the salted meats, root vegetables, and flour (among other things) that Jaskier had been able to procure that morning. 

“Really you’re getting all this at a discount,” the town Elder had said as Jaskier all but emptied out the cellar of an older woman who’d died recently. “We would’ve spread it through the town where it was most needed, but it’s not all as urgent as it would be for you once the snows catch you up in that keep. The coin’ll do just as well here.”

Magda pushed a pair of woolen gloves and woolen stockings into Jaskier’s hands at the last minute, with an order that he was to come down and play more for them in the spring, no matter how careful the rest of his family wanted to be. He kissed her cheek and thanked her, tucking both in his pack with care. The yarn was plainly dyed but very soft, and they’d certainly help keep him warm at night.

Setting out on the road was strangely exhausting, despite a good night's sleep on an actual bed the night before. He knew his wolves were waiting for him just a few hours down the road, but being alone felt colder and lonelier than he would've thought.

"I suppose that could've gone a bit better in the laying low department," he said aloud to Clover after a while. "But it's not like they wouldn't have _guessed_ there were more people I'd be meeting, with the amount of supplies I was looking for. And they don't know the other people are the previous occupants. It should be fine."

Clover huffed slightly, but didn't otherwise respond as she plodded along next to him.

"Listen," he told her sternly, "I know it's asking for trouble to say such things, but I truly _do_ believe things will be fine, and you can't convince me otherwise. _One_ of us has to be upbeat about all of this."

An ear flick. Jaskier sighed and patted her neck lightly.

"I know, it's good to be cautious. But if I don't go about this hopefully, I'll drown in terrifying what-ifs, and _then_ were would we be?"

Clover did not seem to have any answer for that.

They went on like that for a few hours, walking at a fair pace, but nothing too strenuous. At a certain point, Jaskier simply attached the lead to his belt and pulled out his lute, playing and singing a few songs before transitioning into little half-hearted attempts at composing anything unique. Clover provided valuable insights, in the form of good-naturedly plodding along without stopping, and not trying to murder him by dragging on her lead in an unexpected direction.

By the time he reached the partially-hidden turn off to the cave, he'd honestly gotten so distracted telling Clover about the importance of metrical feet in epic poetry - one of the things he'd studied with gusto, as opposed to his stuffier lessons - that if Lambert hadn't been standing watch for him, he would've probably walked right past.

"Going somewhere with all that loot, princess?"

Jaskier whipped around fast enough he nearly tripped himself, tangling up in Clover's lead that was still looped on his belt. "Shit!" he stopped and detangled himself before grinning triumphantly. "Yes! I'm looking for a pack of devastatingly gorgeous witchers, I don't suppose you've seen any?"

"Yeah I think I spotted one the last time I looked in a mirror," Lambert laughed. "C'mon, Buttercup, let's get you back to camp and see what you got."

* * *

Getting up the mountain was exhausting and _cold_. Jaskier had thought he was tired and cold when he'd had to make that last stretch alone to Pinebough, but that was nothing compared to the bone deep chill and weariness that he felt as he finally stumbled behind the wagon into the courtyard of Kaer Morhen. He wasn't cold enough to fear hypothermia, between his layers of wool and the exertion of climbing, but there was a chill that had settled into his limbs that didn't seem to go away even in front of a fire in the caves they'd slept in the past two nights.

"Right," Vesemir said, starting to unhook Clover from the wagon. "Eskel, Lambert, start taking the supplies inside. Geralt, get one of the stalls in the stable cleaned out, turn her out in the paddock until you're done, it looks like there's plenty of grass still that the cold hasn't quite killed, she'll be good to graze for a few days yet, I think. Was there hay left last time you were here?"

"Should still be a lot left if water hasn't gotten in," Geralt responded, even as Eskel and Lambert were already taking some of the supplies up to the main building of the keep.

"Good, check on that so we know if we need to go back down for more before the pass closes." Vesemir turned to Jaskier and starting gently pushing him after Eskel and Lambert, a hand on the back of his neck. "There'll be plenty of time for you to help with fixing this place up," Vesemir told him. "Right now I'm going to get a fire going in the hall and set you up on a cot if any are still usable. You need warmth and rest."

"I can help," Jaskier protested through a yawn.

"I'm sure," Vesemir said with a smile in his voice. "But _we'd_ all feel better if you rested a bit first." His tone was a bit condescending, in Jaskier's opinion, but he was cold and tired enough that he wasn't willing to argue if Vesemir was going to _insist_ on him resting.

The inside of the keep was... well, it felt like a place that had been abandoned for a few years. Dust, a faintly musty smell, a chill different to the chill of outside. There was a pile of wood - some of it looking like it came from broken furniture - still stacked next to a large hearth that opened both on the hall and what looked to be the kitchen on the other side. It was covered in spiderwebs, but appeared dry and usable.

"Good, Geralt kept things in good order while he was still here," Vesemir muttered to himself, stacking wood in the grate. "Jaskier, why don't you test those cots," he said, nodding to a line of wooden-slat cots not far from the hearth. "See if the wood feels solid. We'll remake them this week if not, there's plenty of wood, but it'd be nice to set up our pallets off the stone floor."

Jaskier wandered over to the line of cots. There were only five, each with a small chest at one end, as if this had been where the witchers slept regularly, before their capture. It broke Jaskier's heart a little, but he could understand it. With so few of them left, and the trauma of what led to them being the only ones left, he can imagine keeping to as small a portion of the keep as possible would let it feel the tiniest bit less empty. That would likely explain the bookshelves and stacks of crates and other various things he was starting to make out in the dim light of the large hall, as well, a sort of layout that wouldn't make sense if there were 40 or so people living here, but made perfect sense for four or five who were trying to fill the space as best they could.

He checked the wood visually for signs of rot, pressed down to check the sturdiness of the slats, and found them all to be in what he considered passable condition. They all held his weight up without worrisome creaking, at any rate. As he did so, Vesemir finished piling the wood and used Igni to get the fire started.

"They all seem like they'll hold," he said, his voice echoing in the large hall. "But you'll probably want Eskel to sit on them too before you pass any final judgement."

"You calling me fat, bard?" Eskel asked as he passed by on his way to the kitchen with sacks of potatoes on his shoulders.

"No, just delightfully large and muscular," Jaskier called back, before having any further teasing interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn.

"All right, up," Vesemir said, walking back to the cots. "We'll get this one moved closer to the fire for you, at least until we've dug some more furs out of storage."

"Mmm, sounds cozy," Jaskier commented, pushing himself to his feet. He felt bad, going to bed while the witchers brought everything in and settled clover and did the bare basics of making the keep livable again, but... he was exhausted to the point that he felt like he might nod off standing up, which was never ideal. He helped Vesemir pick up the cot and carry it over near the fire, then dug his blankets out of his pack while Vesemir stepped outside to shake out the fur that had been left on the cot.

"Well, it's not in the best shape, but it's still soft and it'll do," Vesemir said. "We'll get the mattresses stuffed tomorrow, but it should do for the night."

Jaskier all but collapsed onto the cot, still in his clothes, and the fur maybe smelled a bit dusty and old, but it was soft enough to pad the wooden slats for a night. He awkwardly kicked his boots off, dragged his blankets over himself, and was asleep almost before he finished moving.

His dreams were vivid that night, and he wasn't sure if it was because of something in Kaer Morhen itself or he was just inspired by the thought of what this place had been once. He dreamed of the hall bright and vibrant, filled with witchers and trainees, eating and sparring and laughing. He didn't know really if they were happy here, but his wolves laugh still, so they must've laughed then, sometimes.

He woke as he'd stood on the parapet looking down the path at torches trailing back toward the foot of the mountain for what looked like miles. He was over-warm, which while uncomfortable was still a delightful sensation after the past couple of days, and there was sunlight streaming through a window and managing to fall directly across his face.

"Welcome to the land of the living, buttercup!" Lambert said from the table just a few feet from his cot. "You were out for like fourteen hours, easy."

"Nnngh," Jaskier groaned, untangling himself from his blankets and sitting up. "Sorry."

"Hey, you got me out of early chores 'cause they didn't want you wandering off looking for anybody and getting lost," Lambert said. "So thank you. Eskel's a _morning person_ , makes me wanna fucking puke sometimes."

"Oh, well in that case, you're quite welcome," he said. "I need to piss like no one's business, then eat something. I could probably eat _Clover_ and she doesn't deserve that, so I hope there's something left."

"Just outside for now, we'll have a latrine dug later today," Lambert said. "I'll get you some leftover breakfast for when you get back."

Breakfast, when he finally sat down, was some plain but serviceable flatbread, porridge, and salted pork. It was filling, if not a culinary masterpiece, and by the time he was finished, Vesemir had reappeared in the hall.

"You done eating pup?" he asked, and Jaskier shoveled his last bite of porridge into his mouth before nodding. "Good," Vesemir continued. "Time to get you to work helping get this place back in order."

* * *

The days before winter truly started to set in were a flurry of activity. Vesemir had the four witchers doing structural repairs while he set Jaskier to doing things that involved slightly fewer large rocks or felling of trees. Once they dug out the furs and blankets and linens, Jaskier was set to cleaning and conditioning. Jaskier got very good at making sure he was standing upwind of the cloth when he started beating the rugs and dusty blankets after an incident that ended with him getting a face full of old dust. The laundry tubs were huge, and he ended up needing to steal at least one witcher to really deal with the heavier woolen blankets once they were wet.

The hall was a maze of improvised laundry lines as the wool slowly dried and Jaskier moved on to conditioning the furs so they would be supple and usable again. The witchers went from repairing structural damage to seeking out cracks and drafts to plug up. They only worked in the hall, the kitchen, and a set of stairs near the kitchen that went down to probably the greatest gift (apart from shelter) Kaer Morhen had to offer: hot springs.

“We’re pretty sure the mages set them up specifically for themselves,” Eskel said when he took Jaskier down there for the first time, at the end of their first full day. “Otherwise I can’t think they would’ve bothered with all the fancy enchantments.” Said fancy enchantments included most notably something on the spring itself that removed soap and dirt and grime from the water once it was off the body. Which meant there was no need to scrub oneself down before a soak, and the mineral-clouded water stayed clean and enjoyable.

“Well, I’ll thank them for _that_ much at least,” Jaskier responded gleefully, and spent a full hour soaking in one of the middlingly hot pools, as the hotter ones felt like they’d scald him quite thoroughly. Having a nice bath after supper quickly became one of his favorite parts of the evening.

Once the next storm hit, most of the critical repairs were finished, Jaskier had learned how to do laundry and condition furs and dust (start from the top and move down or you’ll have to do the bottom twice), and the five of them were settling in. There was not nearly enough food for Jaskier to feel super comfortable with the state of their supplies, but Lambert assured him that once he found some scraps to resume his bomb-making, between his idea of ice fishing in the nearby lake and hunting trips into the woods, they’d get by.

Which left Jaskier with... well, frankly, very little to do, outside of daily chores that they all rotated through, like cooking and dishes and taking care of Clover. He’d play for a while every day, and would sneak time while the witchers were in the hot springs - something they always insisted on doing separately from him for some reason - to try his hand at songwriting. He wasn’t very good at it, but maybe one day he’d come up with something good enough he wouldn’t feel mortified to sing it in front of people.

Still, he couldn't play all day, nor train all day, and there were only so many chores that needed doing in a day. As the snow came down heavier and the air grew colder, Jaskier was left with plenty of time to think.

To think and watch his wolves training after his own training had finished and pretend that he hadn't started entertaining thoughts that he never would've dared even dream about before they'd fled Kerack.

It came to a bit of a head when the first proper blizzard dumped seven feet of snow on their heads, and Vesemir declared they'd be switching to indoor training, as clearing the yard would be far too much effort even with signs and witcher strength. It started out well enough, of course, everyone training as they usually did, Vesemir letting the boys warm up and scrap a bit with little commentary as he taught Jaskier how to use a dagger. But once Jaskier's limbs were shaking and Vesemir had declared him done for the day, he'd sit back and work on mending or practice his lute, and he'd watch them train. They'd done this for almost three weeks already when it happened.

Due to being indoors, the witchers started overheating, and Lambert was the first to give in, bitching about the heat and stripping his shirt off. It was... very attractive. When it came down to it, Jaskier _was_ nineteen, and found men attractive. He was... interested in looking, to put it mildly. Eskel was next, the two of them taunting each other playfully as the sparred, much more fiercely than Jaskier was used to seeing anyone train when there was no armor involved. He tried to keep his attention on the sock he was clumsily darning, but his eyes kept flicking up to follow the pair of them as they moved.

Jaskier had _known_ they were attractive, of course. It would've been hard to spend over a year living basically on top of each other for him to have missed it. But despite having seen them in various states of undress on the road, he'd never really had the energy to pay attention to it. It turned out that escaping a lifelong abusive home and fleeing as quickly as physically possible across the continent after watching someone kill your abuser at your word made it hard to think about things like sex. And now he was safe and well-rested and comfortable, so his body apparently was deciding to make itself known.

"Enjoying the show?" Lambert asked abruptly as he did a rather impressive attempt at disarming Eskel. It didn't quite work, but Jaskier could tell Eskel had to struggle to keep hold of his sword.

"Um," Jaskier responded, going pink. But... well, this was Lambert, it wasn't like he had to be shy or polite. "Well, you're rather impressive eye candy," he shot back with as cheeky a grin as he could manage through his embarrassment at being caught. "Dunno about the _show_ , though. I think Eskel's giving a better showing."

" _What_?" Lambert asked, and turned to shoot Jaskier a melodramatically betrayed look.

Which was, of course, when Eskel dropped his sword and just straight tackled Lambert to the ground. Lambert's absolutely insulted screech in response had Jaskier laughing and feeling significantly less awkward about having been caught ogling his friends.

"Don't let your guard down!" Vesemir bellowed from where he was sparring with Geralt. "Not even if the pup's insulted your prick, it's not more important than your life!"

"He's not gonna be insulting my prick if I'm fighting for my _life_!" Lambert protested from where Eskel cheerfully had him pinned, trying to get enough leverage to flip the larger witcher off his back.

"Someone else might be!" Vesemir responded. "Get your brother off you, then go again!"

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh again at the deeply offended look on Lambert's face as he returned to the rather difficult task of removing Eskel. From Jaskier's angle, when Lambert finally succeeded and followed it up with a punch to Eskel's arm, he was rather sure Eskel had _let_ himself be flipped, but Jaskier wasn't about to say as much. 

He kept up the darning as they resumed sparring, sneaking glances now and then. If Lambert's response was any indication, they didn't particularly _mind_ if he watched them with a bit of hunger in his belly, but it felt intrusive somehow. He didn't want them feeling objectified, especially as he knew little about their treatment for the years they'd been captive. But on the other hand, the way they weren't used to being treated like _people_ , the way Jaskier had seen folks react to them with fear, maybe it would be a nice change to be seen as desirable?

All of his intellectual pondering goes out the window, however, when Vesemir called for them to switch and Geralt stripped off his shirt to face off against Eskel. Jaskier's hands froze in the process of weaving the needle through the darning yarn, his mouth suddenly dry. Eskel grinned at Geralt.

"What, can't stand to be upstaged by me and Lambert, Wolf?" he asked, and Geralt ducked his head slightly, not looking to where Jaskier was sitting trying to pretend he hadn't just gone temporarily insensate due to Geralt's _chest_.

"Just wanted to join in on the fun," he rumbled, taking a ready stance.

"Well, I think we can give him a pretty good show if we try," Eskel agreed, and swung.

Watching Geralt fight never ceased to be amazing to Jaskier. All four of them were inhumanly fast and surprisingly nimble, of course, but Geralt was another thing altogether. Vesemir had told Jaskier a bit about witchers when they were traveling, after Lambert had woken up screaming one night from a nightmare and subsequently stalked away from the campsite until morning. While he hadn't gone into detail as to what the trials consisted of, he'd admitted it was painful and likely deeply traumatizing, and that the other three still had nightmares sometimes, from the process. That Lambert was particularly prickly about it because he'd come to the training at a relatively old age. That Geralt had been through the trials twice, which was why his hair was white and he was stronger and faster than the rest of them.

None of that was on Jaskier's mind, however, as he sat and pretended (badly) to keep working on his mending. His mind seemed to consist of nothing but _chest sweaty muscles no shirt Melitele wept how can one man be so delicious?_

Unfortunately, as he slowly realized due to the little glances and amused grins Eskel kept shooting at him, witchers could smell emotions. Sort of, Geralt had tried to explain it as just the different ways a body _reacted_ to emotions, but more or less they could smell emotions. And the scent of "horny bard" was probably pretty easy to pick out.

He could feel himself turning red with embarrassment, and stammered something to no one in particular about needing more thread, and _fled_ to the little part of the hall that essentially functioned as a storeroom for non-food items. There was a door to the outside just next to it, and while he wouldn't want to stand out there long, a few moments out in the cold could only be a good thing.

He stood out in the cold long enough for the mortifying heat to leech away from his cheeks and certain other parts of him, before he stepped back in, intending to grab some random thread that he absolutely didn't need and carrying on as usual. Instead, he ran directly into Geralt's (blessedly clothed) chest.

"Sorry," Geralt said sheepishly. "Heard the door open, wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Oh, yeah," Jaskier said with a nervous laugh, even as he could feel blood rushing back to his cheeks. "Just, y'know. Needed a breath of fresh air is all."

"Okay," Geralt accepted with a nod, then shuffled awkwardly. He reminded Jaskier of nothing so much as a child who'd gotten caught misbehaving. "I'm... we didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Just wanted to tease a bit."

Jaskier's heart absolutely melted, and he smiled less awkwardly and more sincerely. "Honestly, it's fine," he assured. "It was just a little embarrassing when I realized, um. How you probably _knew_..."

"It's okay," Geralt cut in quickly. "Just what bodies are like sometimes. Especially when you're young. Like I said, it was... just teasing."

"Right," Jaskier agreed, just as quickly. "Okay. So, we can just... pretend this never happened, right?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure," Geralt said with a solemn nod. "Until next time we're training. Have to make sure we don't overwhelm your delicate sensibilities again."

Jaskier gasped, all mock offense, and swatted Geralt's shoulder. "Cruel! Cruel uncaring oaf of a witcher! I'm _wounded_ that you think my sensibilities are _that delicate_."

Geralt grinned, and turned to return to training, Jaskier trailing after him telling him how _hurtful_ he was in melodramatic tones. Eskel and Lambert both had pulled their shirts back on, and none of them mentioned it again. Jaskier got the feeling it was only a matter of time, but he would at least be _prepared_ next time.

* * *

The winter passed, as quiet winters are wont to do, with very little fanfare or great revelations. Jaskier continued to find the witchers attractive to the point of mortification some days, but he would just retreat if it got too much, and they'd laugh, but never cruelly. If just keeping his dick in line was the only major hurdle of a winter alone with four witchers in a half-ruined keep, well, that was more than manageable for Jaskier, and it was still the most restful winter he'd ever spent in his nineteen years of life.

By the time the snow had thawed enough for them to get Clover and the wagon down the mountain, Jaskier was sick to _death_ of salted jerky and plain traveling biscuits, which was most of what they had left to eat. There wouldn't be _much_ better down in the village, this early in the spring, but at least the promise of something slightly different was something to look forward to, as well as the seeds he'd pick up that they'd be able to plant in a few weeks.

While the three younger witchers went further out than they'd dared previously, Vesemir walked Jaskier and Clover down as far as the cave they'd met at before sending Jaskier into town alone, to try to find any way to earn money or barter for seeds and other supplies they could use now that spring was rolling in.

"Take a few days, but no longer than a week," Vesemir told him. "Stay at the campsite a little further up than here the first night. We'll be able to see your campfire from the keep due to the location, and we'll meet you to help you and the wagon past the worst part of the trail up."

"Sure you trust me to camp out on my own?" Jaskier asked with a grin. Vesemir had already needed to assuage both Geralt _and_ Lambert's fears about his plan to take Jaskier down the mountain, then _leave_ him and trust him to make it partway back on his own.

"Honestly even if I didn't, I'd be inclined to let you just out of weariness from being asked that so many times," Vesemir said pointedly, then shook his head with a small, exasperated smile. "You'll do fine, pup. Good luck."

Jaskier grinned and flicked him a cheeky little salute before turning to lead Clover the rest of the way down.

He caused more than a little excitement from the denizens of the town when they caught sight of him coming down the last stretch of road from the mountain around midday. _Apparently_ the entertainment had been rather lacking over the winter, and the aunties had feared Jaskier would be starved or frozen up the mountain over the winter, so there was a small rush of people surrounding Jaskier as soon as they neared the small market.

"Come up with any new songs up that mountain, bard?" one person asked, as Jaskier tried to reassure Magda that he was fine, not starving, just tired of the slim rations they had left.

"Ah, well, a few in the works, I suppose," he said, feeling almost shy. "Nothing I'm ready to share yet, unfortunately."

"Will you be off traveling now that the weather's turned?" asked someone else.

"No, we're rather set on settling in at Kaer Morhen, for now."

"Fantastic!" Magda declared. "Then I suppose you'll be making regular trips down and can play for us every so often until the next snows, yes?"

"Uh," Jaskier shrugged with a sheepish smile. "Well, I suppose that'll depend on how much use I can be for you," he answered. "There's a fair amount of work to do, making that place livable again, so it's all hands on deck as much as possible. But I'd like to come down, yes."

Magda clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Well, you let them know they'd better be letting you down the mountain time and again at least or so help me I'll march up there myself and bring you back. Boy your age, with your talent deserves an audience and a good meal, now and again!"

"Now, be nice, Miss Magda, my family feeds me just _fine_ ," Jaskier protested, then looked at the small crowd around him. "Well, I suppose I could play just a bit before I go looking for proper work. Back to the inn, or shall we chat in the sunshine as it's such a lovely day?"

A bit of music and gossip led to lunch provided on the house as people bought food and drinks to hear Jaskier's songs and stories. He particularly enjoyed regaling the good people of Pinebough with stories from over the winter about his brothers - or so he called his wolves, with these folks.

"We didn't really have any coin to bet on games, of course," he said as he finished his potatoes. "So it really turned into a series of trading chores and dares. Which is howPapa ended up catching Lambert and Geralt racing across the courtyard, bare as the day they were born, except for these _ridiculous_ old feathered caps they'd found in a chest somewhere!"

His audience burst into uproarious laughter, and Jaskier caught sight of Alma shaking her head with a faint, indulgent smile.

"Now, speaking of my family, though," Jaskier shifted the topic as smoothly as he could, "I wonder if any of you good people have any work that needs doing. I'm not as handy as my brothers, but they're all up the mountain repairing that old ruin a little better, now that the snow's not in the way, and we still need supplies, so here I am, if you have any coin or supplies to spare!"

He smiled hopefully, but the faces that seemed to care at all were also all frowning.

"Young man, did your father decide to punish you?" Helena asked sternly. "Don't lie, we'll know if you do."

"Nnnno?" Jaskier said slowly. "We just... need things from town and I'm in a place to be able to come down the mountain without slowing anything down we're working on up there."

"It's just," Magda cuts in, "you seem so soft, compared to all of us. Doesn't seem like you're generally used to working hard. You're welcome to just play if you like."

"You are very darling people," Jaskier says, in all honesty. "But really, I'm here to earn some coin or supplies, whether that means serenading you or... learning how to shingle a roof! I don't know how to do that, but it's probably a good skill to have anyway, right?"

Helena smiles widely at him. "Well that settles it. I ain't about to turn down an extra pair of hands weeding my herb garden. Little sprouts can't get anything if they're bein' choked off."

"I can certainly do that," Jaskier agreed. "Though you'll have to remind me which is which, I wouldn't want to pull up your herbs instead."

"My wife said just the other day I should get to fixing the leak in the roof," a man said. "Could teach you how to work with thatch, if you like"

"Sounds like a good skill to have, if nothing else," Jaskier agreed.

The flurry of offers for small jobs he could do for a little coin or some food or other supplies kept coming as people thought of simple, unskilled tasks that needed doing that they could spare a little to repay him for. On top of that, there were multiple offers for him to help with more complicated things that needed a more practiced hand, but that they'd be willing to teach him. It was kindness of a sort that gave him faith in the goodness of most people. Even in this small town that had to work hard to get by, they would put themselves out to help a young man with few practical skills provide for his family.

"I hope it's not completely rude to pull my boots off to wave my stocking-feet at you," he joked at one point to a young mother named Lucy who'd asked if he could do mending, as he pulled a boot off so she could inspect the quality of his darning. He'd recently re-done a lot of the mending he'd originally done at the beginning of the winter, once he had gotten a little more practiced at it, and while it wasn't the world's _best_ darning job, it mended the holes in his stockings well enough.

"Not bad," Lucy allowed with a nod. "I've a fair collection of mending that's built up since the twins started walking," she explained with a sigh, as the two toddlers giggled under her skirt, which they were treating somewhat like a tent. She hadn't even protested, just accepted it with a weary sigh. "Even over winter, I can't take my eyes off them for a moment, and by the time they're in bed, I've five other things more urgent to do. But I managed a fair amount of preserves last fall, as we had good harvest, and I'll gladly send you off with a basket of mending and and call it a trade."

"I likely won't be back down for a few weeks," Jaskier told her, "but if that's acceptable to you then I will be more than happy to help."

"Play a bit in the evenings while you're down here and the room's yours," Alma told him before he was dragged out to help with the first of many offered odd jobs. "Meals too, for you and that little mule of yours."

"Oh, Alma, that's too much, though!" Jaskier protested, and Alma waved him off.

"Few days of entertainment and a good lad to lend a hand around town every few weeks is more than enough reason to offer it," she said. "Besides, 'round here we help our neighbors out now and again, when they need it. You and yours made it through the winter and have plenty of time to make sure next winter's even safer, so I figure you're close enough to neighbors to count."

Jaskier couldn't help the way his eyes prickled, even as he smiled. " _Thank_ you, Alma," he said softly. "I rather consider the good folks of Pinebough my neighbors as well."

"Bah, off with you!" Alma said, shooing him out brusquely. Jaskier politely pretended not to notice how her cheeks had gone pink. "Helena's not a patient woman when her garden's on the line. Out!"

"Yes ma'am, Miss Alma!" Jaskier laughed, and allowed himself to be shooed. The sun was shining, green was returning to the world, and not even muddy knees and blistered hands at the end of the day could dim Jaskier's blooming fondness for this new life, and all the people in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK ok I was a wee bit melodramatic at the start, weren't I? Miss Alma and the good people of Pinebough are, in fact, not a threat to our bard, huzzah!
> 
> Also unfortunately my buffer is looking mighty slim now that I'm not doing Nanowrimo levels of daily output, so after new year's (aka Chapter 8) I'm going to drop down to posting every _other_ week to hopefully give me enough time to continue building a buffer between postings. Then, whenever I finally get the last chapter written, assuming that's not immediately after posting the second-to-last chapter, I'll go back to weekly posting until we're done. Good? Good. :)
> 
> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> I adore hearing from y'all, please feel free to message me on either! And as always, comments and kudos are the sweetest of pokéberries to give me a little stat boost when eaten!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS HAS GONE UP LIKE 13 HOURS LATER THAN NORMAL. I totally forgot it was Friday tbh.

Jaskier returned to the town a month later with completed mending and a willingness to get his hands dirty again. And the month after that. As the summer hit the worst of the hot, wet days after midsummer, Jaskier and the witchers had fallen into a nice routine, tending a large garden, feeding the animals (Clover and a smattering of farm animals Jaskier had managed to acquire), doing more fiddly and non-essential repairs to the keep, and Jaskier trekking down the mountain with Clover one week a month to play and help out to earn supplies or promises of parts of future harvests.

Early mornings on the road had been for training, but not in Kaer Morhen. Early morning here was tending to the animals - feeding them all, letting Clover out into the paddock, collecting eggs from the hens, and milking the goat that had attached herself to Eskel like a very aggressive duckling.

After that was bread. While Lambert was generally banned from _cooking_ , as the lack of need for specific measurements lent itself to unfortunate experimentation, he was a rather good _baker_ , especially of bread.

"I think he gets satisfaction from beating the dough half to death," Eskel whispered to Jaskier one early morning with a grin.

"I'll get satisfaction beating _you_ half to death!" Lambert snapped from across the kitchen, slamming the dough forcefully onto the counter. "And it's called _kneading_ , you asshole."

"Don't tease your brother for having useful skills," Jaskier decreed in his best imitation of Vesemir, which at least got a startled laugh out of Lambert, and that was the end of that.

The next morning, though, Jaskier made a point to get up to help with Clover and the chickens (That Goat, as they called her, was entirely Eskel's problem) so he could get into the kitchen and stand next to Lambert before he began the dough.

"Teach me?" he asked hopefully. Lambert looked like he wanted to bristle and shove Jaskier away, but he just let out a deep breath and nodded shortly. Once it became clear Jaskier didn't plan to tease, even good-naturedly, Lambert opened up more, talking Jaskier through what he knew about the mechanics of breadmaking, and overseeing Jaskier's attempts at making a loaf on his own.

"Hm," Lambert said as they looked at the slightly burnt, collapsed loaf that Jaskier had presented him with.

"Yeah," Jaskier sighed. "It's shit."

"Well, at least it's _edible_ ," Lambert pointed out, tearing a piece off and popping it in his mouth. "Tastes okay, you just let it prove too long. And then forgot to take it out of the oven. My first loaf was worse, all doughy and raw and under proved, and had _way_ too much salt."

It didn't make Jaskier feel any better about how shit it looked, but Lambert's attempt to cheer him up made him smile. And the fact that by the end of the day, the whole loaf had been eaten without complaints and _with_ horror stories of Lambert's early baking adventures made him feel brave enough to try again.

After bread, his days at the keep were predictable. Training was in the morning after breakfast and early morning chores, then a soak in the hot springs while the witchers _kept_ training. Mending if he had any, tending to the gardens. Lunch, music and reading, maybe a nap, maybe some sort of lesson on herbology or something. More gardening, supper, and then occasionally getting ridiculously drunk with his witchers while they recounted old hunts and played Gwent or chess.

It should've been monotonous and boring. Before the witchers came into his life, Julian had hated that his days were more or less the same day in and day out, and his tasks had felt so much more tedious than baking and gardening and mending did now. But instead of boring it was comfortable and familiar. Brushing down Clover in the pre-dawn light, humming softly while he and Lambert kneaded bread, carefully choosing the right color thread to mend a shirt as invisibly as possible, weeding a plot of potatoes and squash... he was _happy_ doing these things every day.

It perhaps said more about how little he cared about any of the daily tasks he did in Kerack than it did about his ability to stomach a routine.

His trips down the mountain were increasingly enjoyable, as he got to know the people of Pinebough and the shape of their lives. He learned about how old Elias and Miss Magda had been in love for forty years but were both too stubborn to say it. He knew that between his nerves, his stutter, and his determination to do something properly romantic, it had taken Lucy's husband Kurt nearly twenty minutes to get his proposal out, and that she'd sat and listened to the whole thing even though she figured out what was happening only five minutes in, because Kurt hated being rushed or interrupted. Jaskier grew to know Victor's terrifying hens (no relation to the Kaer Morhen hens, thank Melitele) and Alma's very patient milk cow, and that he should absolutely take dye tips from Helena but not yarn, because even at fifty the woman still couldn't spin worth shit. 

A hundred little things that he'd learned, a hundred little jokes he knew the stories behind, or had been there to build. They weren't his wolves, he didn't feel like they were his family, he didn't trust them with every aspect of himself, but the people of Pinebough were, without a doubt, his friends. So when, just after midsummer, there was a horrific storm with torrential rain and strong winds, that further damaged some of the unused parts of the keep, and knocked down many trees and wooden outbuildings, Jaskier knew he had to check on the state of the town as soon as the skies cleared.

"Ooooh no," he protested when he saw Eskel and Geralt standing at the gate with packs, the morning after the storm passed and Jaskier had announced his intentions at breakfast. "I am perfectly capable of traveling down the mountain by myself at this point!"

"We know," Eskel said easily with a shrug. "We're coming anyway."

"I'm used to the path, and Vesemir needs help doing repairs up here!" Jaskier pushed back, even as he strode out the gate, the two witchers falling in step to either side of him. "You're being ridiculous."

"Maybe," Geralt allowed, his voice more hesitant than Jaskier would've expected. "But... it was a bad storm."

"Which is precisely why you should stay up here," Jaskier said, though a bit more gently than he'd felt initially. He couldn't quite pinpoint why Geralt sounded uncertain, and it bothered him.

"The damage here isn't too bad, despite everything," Eskel said, waving him off. "Vesemir can do without us a couple of days."

"But _why_?" Jaskier pushed. "I've done this trek alone before."

"In good weather," Eskel clarified. "With a clear path and little risk of rock or mudslides. Especially on that rough patch about a half mile down."

"It's a little narrow and rocky," Jaskier allowed, "but it's worse when I've got Clover and the wagon, and I'm not taking them this time."

"It's worse after a storm," Eskel said firmly. "It... you'd probably be fine. You're not trying to run the trail, you can take your time and be careful, but... just in case."

"Trying to... _run_ the trail?" Jaskier asked, baffled, turning to look at Geralt to verify he'd heard Eskel right. Geralt's expression was closed off, his eyes on the ground just in front of him and a crease between his eyebrows. When he said nothing, Jaskier looked back at Eskel. "Why would I _run_ it?"

Eskel sighed, looking off into the trees. "That part of the path down to Pinebough was also part of a different path that loops around Kaer Morhen. A training run, difficult and dangerous terrain, intended to test our speed, dexterity, and ability to spot or avoid dangerous environmental elements."

"We called it The Killer," Geralt said softly on Jaskier's other side. 

Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath, and stopped walking to turn and look at them both. Their faces were solemn but otherwise blank, in a way that they only were when they didn't want to show how they were feeling. It was a familiar expression from their days in the palace, and Jaskier's heart cracked a little for how badly this must be affecting them, to push them to closing off so thoroughly with him.

"I assume it was aptly named?" Jaskier asked, his stomach sinking.

"Very," Eskel agreed. "Just... it was always especially bad if it was muddy or icy."

"And I'm going down it right after a big storm, and it will undoubtedly be muddy," Jaskier finished. "Oh, my wolves. That's all you had to say, and I wouldn't have argued for a moment, and I won't argue now." He hitched his small pack a little bit, and smiled widely at them both. "Now, I need to get down to check on our neighbors. Come along, boys!"

He heard Eskel chuckle softly and murmur something Jaskier's ears couldn't catch, and started singing a traveling song as his boys followed him down.

* * *

Pinebough was a _disaster_.

While many homes had at least one wall made of stone, into which the hearth was set, there was still plenty of wood and thatching in the construction of Pinebough's various buildings, and it had stood up to the viciousness of the storm significantly poorer than Kaer Morhen had. Alma's inn, the walls made of whole logs rather than boards, was the most intact building Jaskier could see as he approached. Despite his legs being a bit sore from hiking down with a bit more speed than he usually bothered with, he still broke into a bit of a trotting run as he got closer.

The younger men were all trying to heft a rather large tree out of the middle of Lucy and Kurt's house, and Jaskier felt his heart stutter. Alma was, unsurprisingly, essentially acting as foreman of the activity, and he beelined to her.

"Alma!" he cried, skidding to a stop and looking over at the tree trunk anxiously.

"No one's badly hurt in town," she said immediately, and Jaskier's heart felt like it could beat properly again. "What of up the mountain?"

"Some mild damage to parts that were already crumbling," Jaskier said. "The chicken coop was on its side, but the hens are fine. I came down to check on you all, and..." He scanned what of the town he could see. there was still debris everywhere, some houses simply needing window or roof repairs, others all but collapsed. He assumed the barns out in the farmlands would be in similar states. "This is so much worse than I thought it would be," he said quietly.

"It's been generations since we had a storm with that much ferocity," Alma admitted. "At least it's summer. No one'll freeze to death while we fix this, thank the gods. The fields, though... we've hardly had a chance to properly check them, just trying to get enough space cleared and repaired for folk to _live_." She rubbed a hand over her face and for a moment she looked older and wearier than Jaskier had ever seen her. "It'll be good to have you. We'll need some song to cheer us up come evening, and an extra pair of hands won't hurt.

"I can't stay," Jaskier said abruptly, which seemed to startle Alma. "Or, well, not right this second. But I'll be back in a couple of hours. Can I leave my bag and lute behind your counter?"

"Of course," Alma said with a frown. "What are you plotting, boy?"

" _Plotting_? Nothing at all," Jaskier declared. "I'm simply going to fetch a little bit of assistance." He pulled her into a hug with one arm, and kissed her cheek. "Hold down the fort until I get back!" he called as he jogged off toward the inn, to drop this things off.

His wolves, bless them, had set up camp in a little clearing significantly closer to town than the usual cave, so that he could get back to them quickly if necessary. He couldn't imagine a reason, but they'd already been anxious the day before, so Jaskier wasn't inclined to push for more information _or_ try to tell them to stay elsewhere. And in the end, it worked out _perfectly_ , because they were less than an hour's walk outside town.

"Geralt! Eskel!" he called as he neared the camp they'd made sure he knew the location of. "Pack up, you're not camping out here!"

Both men emerged from the trees with their swords drawn, looking more than a little anxious.

"Nothing's _wrong_ ," Jaskier clarified quickly. "I know you four didn't want the town to know you'd come back, but..." he sighed, and gestured back down the road. "It's a mess. There's only one building in good shape, they haven't even had a chance to properly check on the fields, they _need help_."

"They won't want us there," Geralt said immediately, sheathing his sword.

"They will once they realize you can help," Jaskier insisted. " _Especially_ if you're helping because they're your neighbors and my friends, and not because you have anything to gain."

Geralt and Eskel looked at each other, and had one of those little silent conversations that Jaskier found so endearing. A lift of Geralt's eyebrows, a roll of Eskel's eyes, and then they're trooping back into the trees.

"You're a menace, pup!" Eskel called over his shoulder. Jaskier grinned and rocked back on his heels. No need to follow them into the woods, he knew they'd be packed again within moments, he'd _seen_ how quickly those boys could move when sufficiently motivated, and he was rather sure him standing alone on the road waiting for them counted as sufficient motivation. Sure enough, he didn't wait more than two minutes before they were trundling out, looking mildly apprehensive but ready to go.

"I can convince Alma there's nothing to worry about," Jaskier said. It was mostly true, she'd worry a bit, but he knew he could convince her to trust them enough to let them help. "The rest of the town tends to take her lead, and she absolutely _adores_ me."

"Vesemir's gonna kill us," Eskel muttered. "This is gonna get us forced to leave again."

"Nonsense!" Jaskier protested. "They're going to see you helping them rebuild their home, and how much I care about you, and they're going to realize you're not all that bad."

"Or they're going to feel like us showing up is a threat," Geralt said softly, "and they'll send word to Szymon's forces and we'll be shit out of luck even if we survive."

"None of them are particularly fond of Szymon," Jaskier insisted. “ _And_ , unlike Szymon, you two are going to be literally rebuilding their town with your own two hands. Well, four if you count them all together." Jaskier shook his head to clear it. "Sorry, my point was that really even if they don’t like witchers, you’re a bit of the lesser of two evils, so to speak.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbled. “Evil’s evil. Don’t see how it makes any difference what’s less evil than something else, folks shouldn’t pick evil to begin with.”

Jaskier pursed his lips and fell silent for a moment. That was a... remarkably naive sort of view of things, coming from someone who’d likely _had_ to try to pick the lesser evil more than once in his life. Though Jaskier could guess that it was more a matter of _wanting_ things to be so straightforward and black-and-white.

“Okay,” he said finally. “First of all, choosing to trust some men who've done nothing wrong isn't actually _evil_ , even if those men are witchers. It was a turn of phrase. Second, imagine this theoretical situation. There is a flood coming in the spring that will destroy a farming community and a large city. I only have the time or resources to warn one. If I save the farming community, everyone in the city will die, but if I save the city everyone in the farming community will die. Whichever I pick, there will be loss of life that I could’ve prevented. I don’t have time to try to come up with a better solution. What do I do?”

Geralt considered that for a moment.

“I guess... you save the city,” he said slowly. “More lives saved.”

“Will the loss of the farmers and their crops impact the city’s ability to survive?” Eskel asked. “Or other cities?”

Jaskier grinned at Eskel. “Good work. Yes, that farming community, while containing many fewer people than the city, provides necessary grains for the three closest cities, and would leave all three cities without nearly enough food to last until the next harvest, causing the deaths of potentially double or even triple the number of people that would be lost in the single flooded city alone. There will still be less harvest, due to the delay waiting for the floods to recede and rebuilding, but with help from the crown - that’s us, in this scenario - they’ll be able to be back in their fields within two weeks of the flood, and while things will be tight, there is not likely to be widespread starvation come winter.”

He turned to Geralt. “So. I can knowingly let hundreds of people drown directly to save dozens, but saving those dozens will save thousands in the long run. Either way I have to make the decision to let people die. Are you going to tell me that both choices are equally bad, when not choosing at all will result in the most deaths of all of them?”

Geralt grimaced. “Hmm.”

“The lesser evil usually is just the best choice that can be made in a given situation,” Jaskier said with a sad smile. “The world is a complicated and messy place without a lot of purely good or purely bad decisions to make. You just have to weigh the hurt that will be caused by any given choice against the hurt of other options. And sometimes you weigh wrong. But you have to try, because usually doing nothing is worse than whatever the lesser evil is.”

“I thought you said you’d make a poor king,” Eskel said with a bemused shake of his head.

“Oh, I probably would’ve,” Jaskier responded brightly. “I might understand the concept, but if someone’s standing in front of me asking for help, I’m not all that good about weighing fuck all in favor of wanting to help them. Can’t see the forest for the tree right in front of me and all that.”

“So what’s the worse outcome for not choosing, for the town?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmm, probably starvation or freezing over the winter," Jaskier said slowly. "And maybe even eventually being destroyed by monsters, if any have moved back to the area while you were gone. See, they have never heard hide nor hair of Szymon when they've asked for aid from the crown, for _anything_. So even if they decided to side with Szymon instead of you four, and Szymon kept not helping, and people still died from monsters or starvation or freezing, at least they would’ve still been reaching out and _trying_.”

Geralt watched Jaskier for a moment, his gaze thoughtful and intense, then he shook his head.

“You’d’ve been a good king with the right advisors,” he said finally. “You think about stuff like this, and know how to weigh the options if you’re given them.”

“Maybe so,” Jaskier admitted with a shrug. “But I was never going to _have_ the right advisors, and I wouldn’t have had the first idea how to _find_ them, so in the end, this is for the best. For me _and_ Kerack.”

"Hmm," was Geralt's only response.

The two witchers held back somewhat as they entered the town, catching attention for their armor and swords as much as for the fact they'd come in with Jaskier. Alma stood in the town center talking with a few exhausted-looking men, but turned once the curious murmurs announcing Jaskier and his witchers' arrival reached her. She strode forward and stopped in front of the three of them, arms crossed over her chest.

She pinned Jaskier with her eyes, one eyebrow arched. "These your brothers?"

"Two of them," Jaskier replied, a little sheepishly. "Look, Alma--"

"If I'd written to the king's men and told them there were witchers in Kaer Morhen again, I wouldn't have been wrong, would I?" she asked. Jaskier could almost _feel_ Geralt and Eskel tense behind him, but he just offers her an apologetic smile.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Listen, Alma, I know it's... there's a lot of awful things people say about witchers. But what I said, about trusting them? I meant that. They're here because they wanted to see me safely down the mountain after all the rain, and when I saw how badly everything was looking _here_..."

Alma looks from Jaskier to the witchers, pursing her lips as she considered them.

"Why'd you come back?" she asked. Jaskier turned and shot an encouraging smile at the two men.

"Kaer Morhen's the only home we've got, even if it's a ruin," Eskel said. "And we needed someplace safe for Jaskier to stay. Seemed like the best option."

"Fair enough," she said. "And why are you here in town?"

Eskel and Geralt looked at each other briefly.

"Jaskier asked us to," Eskel answered with a shrug.

"And it's the right thing to do," Geralt added quietly.

Alma watched them for a moment, let them start to shift uncomfortably under the attention.

"Well," she said finally, "Lucy and Kurt's place still has that tree trunk right in the middle of it. Couldn't get it to budge. You two strong?"

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused, as if they were speaking to Vesemir. Jaskier did his best to suppress a smile.

"Then you can help the boys get that out of the way so we can get their little ones back in their home," she said firmly, then turned to march toward a group of young men. Jaskier trotted after her, gesturing for Geralt and Eskel to follow. "Kurt! Got some extra hands for that tree, let's try moving it again now!"

Kurt looked nervous at the sight of the witchers. "Alma?"

"Jaskier brought two of his _brothers_ to help us out," she said pointedly, and Kurt's expression shifted closer towards surprise and curiosity as he looked to Jaskier.

"The one who looks like an old man's Geralt, and the handsome one's Eskel," Jaskier said with a cheeky grin, ignoring the put-out huff of protest from Geralt at that description. "Geralt, Eskel, this is Kurt, he's the father of those twins that kept Lucy so busy I had a basket full of mending after that first trip down."

The three men all nodded politely to each other.

"It's... g-good to m-meet you, finally," Kurt offered.

"Jaskier talks about his brothers quite a bit," Alma clarified to the witchers. "A few of us were starting to think he'd simply made you up."

"Ex _cuse_ me?" Jaskier asked, playing at offense so melodramatically no one could possibly take him seriously. "See if I play _anything_ you request for the next _year_!"

Alma rolled her eyes, Kurt laughed, and Jaskier's tension started bleeding out bit by bit. His wolves were good men. The town would warm up to them quickly, with any luck.

"Is there anyplace we can leave our things?" Eskel asked Alma quietly, and Alma nodded. "You can leave them back in the inn. Jaskier can show you." To Jaskier she added, "Get them out to Kurt and Lucy's, the boys'll meet you there. I'll let folks know you brought your brothers in town so no one gets too much of a shock." That was, she'd let them know Jaskier's 'brothers' were witchers, and not to panic, Jaskier assumed.

"Yes ma'am, Miss Alma," he said. "Come along, boys," he declared, striding past the witchers and towards the inn, leaving them to jog after him. "We've got some big repairs to do!"

* * *

Jaskier shouldn't have been surprised that there was a bit of a crowd clustered near - but not _too_ near - Kurt and Lucy's house when he got Eskel and Geralt there. but it was amusing watching a fair number of people try to decide if they were frightened by or attracted to the strongly-muscled men who were helping lift a fallen tree out of the ruins of the house. The tree trunk was heavy even by witcher standards, but between the two of them and the men who'd been trying to move it before, it wasn't very long before they'd at least gotten it into the already-ruined garden _behind_ the house.

"Thank you," the blacksmith, Donnal, said sincerely once it was there, clapping Eskel on the shoulder. "We were thinking we'd have to chop it up to move it, and that would've taken a lot more time. And it can at least be split into boards now, eh?"

"Oh, uh. Yes," Eskel agreed, glancing back at Jaskier with a somewhat confused expression, clearly unused to this kind of camaraderie outside of his brothers and Jaskier himself. Jaskier grinned and nodded encouragingly.

Alma clapped her hands and called, "All right, they've proven useful and we're all _very_ glad, now back to work! Jaskier, with me."

"Have fun, you two!" Jaskier called over his shoulder as he trotted after Alma.

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly, and he saw Geralt and Eskel only in passing a few times as he helped clear debris out of yards and sort what could be repaired, what could be used to repair other things, and what was essentially kindling. A couple of the farmers, now that the witchers were here making even better progress on the more substantial clean-up than they had been, took the opportunity to go check everyone's fields so they could report back on the state of them come supper. Jaskier got multiple splinters, and a scrape and a tear in the elbow of his shirt when he tripped with an armful of debris and landed on it, but mostly by the time the light was starting to go and everyone was gathering for a meal, Jaskier was just a bit sore from the exertion.

Supper was a communal affair, served in the cleared innyard. Simple but filling, Jaskier sat himself happily between Geralt and Eskel on a low log bench near the fire, chattering away with a handful of villagers, who didn't seem to be paying any attention to the large witchers on either side of him. They weren't engaging in the conversation, though they were clearly following it, and Jaskier wondered if he should let them just take it all in or try to engage them. After all, they weren't used to being treated like average people, or people at all. It might be better to wait until tomorrow to try to coax them out of their shells.

Or, that was Jaskier's _plan_ , at least, until he got up to clean their dishes in the washtub Alma had set up outside, and turned around to find that a few of the townsfolk had different ideas.

There weren't _many_ children in Pinebough. There were a fair number of older teens who were largely treated as adults, who would start to marry and have the next generation in a few years, certainly, but only a handful of actual _children_. Lucy's twins - Kris and Talia - were the youngest, then Alma's nephew and niece - Jory and Suzanna - were respectively seven and nine, and Donnal's youngest daughter Lily was twelve. And, to Jaskier's eternal delight, all five of them were clustered around Geralt and Eskel when he turned from washing up.

Lily had stolen Jaskier's seat between the two rather bewildered-looking witchers, chattering rather authoritatively to Eskel on her father's skill as a blacksmith and how if they ever needed _anything_ repaired, absolutely _anything_ , he could do it cheaper than anyone fancier _and_ just as good, too. Geralt was pinned between Jory and Suzanna, the former bombarding him with every question about monsters he'd ever thought of, from the sounds of it, while the latter was attempting to braid his hair. Kris was mirroring Jory, babbling his own questions incoherently, and Talia had taken up a position in Eskel's lap while sucking her thumb, and seemed like she had every intention of remaining there until forcibly removed.

"I see you two have made some friends," Jaskier commented as he sauntered up to the little group, and Geralt and Eskel both looked up at him imploringly. Or, well, Geralt _tried_ to, but when he turned his head, Suzanna swatted him on the shoulder.

"No moving, Mr. Geralt!" she ordered, and Geralt obligingly resumed being still.

"Help?" he asked plaintively, his eyes flicking up to Jaskier's face, and Jaskier laughed brightly.

"Oh, I don't think so. I've been the subject of their combined attention plenty of times in our short acquaintance, haven't I, Miss Lily?"

"Jaskier's usually the most interesting thing in town when he's here," Lily agreed. "And he tells good stories."

"Oh! I thought of another one Mr. Geralt!" Jory burst out, bouncing on his toes. Kris babbled excitedly and bounced next to him. "What's a suckybus? I heard Vin talk about it once, he said Lena was one."

Jaskier nearly choked trying not to howl with laughter at the panic that blossomed over Geralt's face.

"Uh," he said, and Jaskier decided to take pity on him while simultaneously avoiding a potential incident, should Geralt incorrectly gauge the appropriate amount of detail to give a child about the habits and traits of a 'suckybus'.

"Oh, I know the answer to that one," he said, "Can I answer that one, Jory?"

"Sure, okay," Jory agreed.

"A _succubus_ ," he said, emphasizing the pronunciation, "is a creature that can take energy from people by, ah... kissing them."

Jory wrinkled his nose in disgust, the idea of kissing offending his precious seven-year-old sensibilities. " _Gross_."

"Oh, exceedingly," Jaskier agreed, which drew a snort of laughter out of Geralt.

"Well, okay. So why'd Vin call Lena one?" Jory asked, with all the innocence of youth. "Did he wanna kiss her?"

"Uh..." Jaskier himself was suddenly at a loss, and he could hear Eskel snickering softly at his predicament. "I... do not know," Jaskier said, and it was _true_ even if he had a few good guesses as to the reasoning. "I suppose you'd have to ask Vin."

"Okay," Jory agreed, then turned and ran off with a shout of, " _VIIIIIN!_ " as he did. Kris tried to toddle after him, only to be scooped up by his father instead. Kurt shot a smile and wave at the witchers and Jaskier, but made no move to come collect Talia from Eskel's lap.

"Masterfully handled," Eskel drawled, and Talia and Lily both giggled at the _very_ put-out face Jaskier shot him.

"Listen, I enjoy children, but I'm in no way qualified for something like _that_ ," he declared.

"Why not?" Suzanna asked from behind Geralt's head.

"Because that's stuff your mom and dad should tell you about," Lily said, with an air of bored experience. So _she'd_ clearly already gotten the talk about sex, at least Jaskier wouldn't have to field her all-too-shrewd questioning on the subject any time soon. "It's _embarrassing_ for other people, and you're not supposed to talk about it in public, anyway."

"Something like that," Jaskier agreed. "Do you ladies mind if I have these witchers all to myself for a few minutes? I promise you can come back when I go get my lute to play."

"Yeah, okay," Lily agreed readily, hopping off of the bench. "Come on Suza, Aunt Alma told me she made honey cakes for us since we've all been very good since the storm." She turned to Eskel - or rather, to Talia in Eskel's lap, and held out her hand. "C'mon, Talia, we're gonna go get sweets."

Talia let out a small wail of protest, and curled into Eskel, practically burrowing into his stomach. Jaskier caught sight of something soft and aching in Eskel's expression as he brought a cautious hand up to press against Talia's back comfortingly.

"It's okay," Eskel murmured, to both Talia and Lily. "She can stay. Not gonna spy on us, huh?" he asked with a smile, prompting a little giggle from the toddler.

"All right," Lily agreed. "But if she bothers you, it's okay to send her back to her Mama and Papa."

Once the two girls were off to their own devices, and Talia freshly settled even _more_ determinedly in Eskel's lap, both witchers turned to Jaskier expectantly.

"So, what is it?" Geralt asked.

"Oh, I don't have anything to say," Jaskier replied. "You both just looked a little overwhelmed by the attention and I thought I'd give you a break. They're good kids, but... intense, sometimes."

"Thanks, Jaskier," Eskel said with a smile. "It was fine, just..."

"Just a lot all at once," Geralt finished with a nod. "Usually people don't really want us near their children."

"Well, clearly people don't usually bother to get to know you like they should, the bastards," Jaskier said fiercely, then slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes dropping to Talia in Eskel's lap, listening intently. "Okay, I know you only have a few words you use reliably, little bit, and I am _begging_ you to not make that one of them," he told her solemnly.

"Bah," Talia said.

"Good enough for me," Jaskier replied.

"Oi, Jaskier!" someone called from across the yard. "You bring that lute, or just your witchers?"

"You are in luck, Bren, I _did_ bring my lute!" Jaskier called back, pushing himself to his feet. "Thought you folks might need some good music after a storm like that." He smiled down at his wolves, at the braids in Geralt's hair that hadn't quite unplaited themselves, at Talia curled sleepy and trusting in Eskel's uncertain arms. At these little proofs of how just an afternoon of knowing them had set so many people at ease, despite everything the Continent said and believed about witchers. "That's my cue," he said, resisting the urge to embrace them both. "If either of you wants to settle in early, just ask Alma, she'll know where there's room for us in all this mess."

He played, though not nearly as long as he'd come to consider usual for evenings in Pinebough, as everyone was a bit exhausted and there was a lot of work still to be done the next day. At some point, Lucy went to retrieve a deeply-asleep Talia from Eskel's lap, and she kissed the scarred witcher's cheek in gratitude before going inside the inn. Still, even with his shortened set, Eskel and Geralt had retired by the time Jaskier finished.

"I've got them in the root cellar," Alma admitted when Jaskier finished. "It was that or the main room with everyone else, but they looked like they could use a little privacy and quiet."

"Thank you, Alma," Jaskier said with a grateful smile. "And thank you for being so welcoming. They're not used to being treated as kindly as you all have treated them today, unfortunately, and it just eats me up sometimes. So thank you."

"Folk shouldn't need to be reminded to be decent to each other." Alma shrugged. "Guess we forget sometimes that witchers are just folk, too."

"Well, with any luck, we can remind the world that before all of them are lost to monsters or hateful acts or time," Jaskier said. "At the very least, I'm grateful mine can experience that here, anyway."

"Go sleep, boy, you look dead on your feet," Alma said firmly. "There's more work tomorrow, you'll need your rest."

"Yes ma'am," Jaskier laughed as he backed away with a bow.

The root cellar was cool and smelled earthy. Geralt and Eskel had already shuffled things around so that all three of their bedrolls could be laid out, and were quietly talking when Jaskier came down the stairs and tucked his lute in its case.

"I think this went well," he commented as he struggled out of his boots and stripped down to his braies before digging a loose sleep shirt out of his pack.

"I still think Vesemir's going to throw us off the north tower," Geralt sighed. "The more people know there are witchers here, the less safe any of us are. If Szymon gets word that we're here, he'll be livid. Enslave us again, if he can. Probably execute or enslave _you_ for the death of your father. I don't like it."

"They won't do that," Jaskier said. "Not only because they like me, but because they like _you_." Both witchers looked dubious, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. "They let their children play with you. You're helping them rebuild their _home_ , for no reason other than it's the right thing to do. They like you."

"It would be nice to come to town once in a while, if they didn't fear and hate us," Eskel said thoughtfully. "New people to play Gwent with."

"Lambert would like it," Geralt admitted. "We know all his good stories already, we don't appreciate them anymore, according to him."

"Well, I think that's more because he keeps exaggerating and we won't let him get away with it," Eskel laughed.

"And I think Vesemir would enjoy knowing his pups had friends and were being treated like people," Jaskier added, flopping onto his bedroll and closing his eyes. "This is a good thing, you'll see. Now hush, I need my beauty sleep."

* * *

A week later, the town was in much better shape, and Jaskier, Eskel, and Geralt made their apologies for leaving and headed back up to Kaer Morhen. They had been thoroughly embraced and wished well, and Eskel and Geralt were told in no uncertain terms (by Lily specifically, though it appeared the rest of the town shared the sentiment) that they should be sure to come back down often.

As expected, when they got back up to the Keep and told Vesemir what happened, he had been less than pleased, but had come around to the idea. Jaskier thought it probably had a little bit to do with the way Eskel lit up when he talked about Talia taking a liking to him, spending at least part of every meal perched in his lap.

"Just don't go spilling more secrets," he grumbled, but patted Jaskier on the back with a faint smile anyway.

Lambert had been suspicious as fuck, but the following trip that Jaskier made down the mountain (with Clover's cart full of salted meats that the witchers had hunted and prepared, for the townsfolk, in case they were still struggling) he and Vesemir came with him and they found themselves peppered with questions and welcomed with open arms.

Donnal had apparently even told them, during Jaskier's performance that first night, that everyone knew they'd have helped like Eskel and Geralt if they'd been down the mountain, because they were Jaskier's family, and he wouldn't love anyone as much as he clearly loved them if they weren't good people.

Jaskier loved the people of Pinebough so much in that moment.

Alma and Vesemir got on well, once it became clear she was the unofficial leader of the town, and Lambert quickly became a favorite of the young people of the town, both because he told outrageous stories (and told them well, though Jaskier was a bit reluctant to admit it to him) and because he treated them like they were intelligent, capable people, not kids.

They were welcoming and friendly, and Vesemir had told them to - carefully - make their way up the path to Kaer Morhen if ever they had dire need of assistance, which shocked... well, everyone.

"You're a sentimental old man," Alma told him after that particular offer. "The last time a group of humans came up your mountain, they sacked your home, but get a little fond of us and suddenly you're throwing open the gates?"

"I did say _dire_ need," Vesemir growled.

"Sentimental and a complete pushover," Alma insisted, and Vesemir got an extra sweetroll with his supper that night.

None of them, in town or in Kaer Morhen, anticipated anyone having to take Vesemir up on that offer, though, at least no time soon. Which was why it was so concerning when one evening in autumn, when everyone but Vesemir was up one of the still-intact towers drinking and watching the stars, Lambert said, "Uh, guys? Is that a campfire down the path?"

Geralt and Eskel were both immediately at the edge, looking down where Lambert was pointing. Jaskier didn't bother, knowing that if Lambert was asking for confirmation, it was likely too far away for his eyes to catch. He did sit up, though, watching them intently for their reaction as they silently peered into the darkness.

"I'll tell Vesemir," Geralt said finally, and took off running down the stairs as Lambert and Eskel quickly gathered the scattered blankets and drinks they'd been enjoying.

"I'll take it that was a yes?" Jaskier asked, picking up the bottle of wine he'd been drinking out of, since Lambert's vodka was only something he touched if he wanted to get properly _drunk_.

"Looks like it," Eskel affirmed. "We need to get downstairs, see what Vesemir wants us to do about it."

They met Geralt and Vesemir in the main hall, both looking serious.

"Just one fire?" Vesemir asked immediately, and both Eskel and Lambert nodded. "Get some sleep. Lambert and Eskel, you'll go meet them and assess the situation as soon as it's light enough to travel."

"And me," Jaskier said firmly. Vesemir nodded.

"Fine, yes," he said, and immediately held up his hand to silence the protests starting to come from the three younger witchers. "If both of you need to come back up to the keep, it'll be easier for whoever's coming to get back to town safely if Jaskier goes with them. And if they're a stranger, you can hang back for him to see what someone's doing coming up our mountain."

They couldn't really argue with that logic, and Eskel and Lambert started putting together their packs and gear.

"Go sleep, Jas," Geralt said. "I'll get your pack put together for you, you'll need the rest."

Jaskier smiled and squeezed Geralt's arm fondly. "You realize I'm not a prince anymore, right?" Jaskier teased gently. "I can pack my own bag and _everything_."

"Yeah," Geralt replied with a faint flush on his cheeks, pointedly not looking up at Jaskier as he spoke. "But you're... family. We look out for family." He paused, like he might say more on the subject, but didn't. "Get some sleep," was all he said instead, and excitement aside, Jaskier was more than happy to do just that.

Morning came sooner than Jaskier would've liked, and darker, too. It was light enough for witchers to travel, but still not quite there for a human, but Jaskier still sleepily shouldered his pack, inhaled his breakfast, and fell into step between Lambert and Eskel as they started moving. They moved particularly carefully through the stretch of the Killer, but aside from that walked at a slightly-faster-than-comfortable clip, at least for Jaskier's legs. Between that and the speed of whoever was making their way up the mountain, it was still morning when they finally intersected the owner of the campfire.

"Callan!" Jaskier exclaimed when they caught sight of the young man, and broke into a careful run to close the distance between himself and Jory and Suzanna's father. "What happened, is everyone all right?"

"Thank the gods, I was starting to think this was the wrong path," Callan sighed. "Town's fine, but Alma sent me to fetch you folk soon as we could. Day before yesterday, a strange witcher stumbled into town. Hurt real bad. He collapsed and we did what we could, but it's bad, and none of us know how to treat a witcher, so..."

"So you came to get the people who do," Eskel finished. "Smart." He turned to Lambert. "Figure I should go get Vesemir, bring him down?"

"And some of the potions we've brewed," Lambert agreed. "Jaskier and I will go back down with Callan, try to keep the fucker kicking until you get there."

Eskel didn't bother saying goodbyes before turning and heading back up the mountain, leaving Lambert and Jaskier to keep moving down, Callan in their wake.

"How badly injured?" Lambert asked as they got moving, and Callan grimaced.

"Pretty bad," he said. "Lots of slashes needing stitches, they were still bleeding a little. Couldn't tell what made 'em, but he looked a mess. Old Gertie thought a couple of 'em were infected, too, when I left. Don't know if they were, though."

"Damn. Sounds like a stubborn ass," Lambert laughed. It wasn't funny, but Jaskier understood the impulse. "He'll fit right in if he sticks around, I guess."

"Let's hurry down so we can make sure he has the option," Jaskier said, picking up his pace.

They had to stop before they reached Pinebough, of course, though closer to town than Jaskier usually did on his way down, thanks to the early start and the near grueling pace they kept up for most of the day. Despite his somewhat flippant attitude toward the situation as a whole, Lambert pushed them hard and started them as early as possible the next morning, clearly intent on actually keeping the strange witcher alive until the others could get there.

It made sense. Even if he didn't care about the man personally, there were so few witchers left, and most of them treated so badly. It followed that Lambert might want to make sure this other witcher got a chance to see that not every human was an asshole about them.

They didn't talk much on the way down, and reached Pinebough a little before lunch, heading straight to the inn, where the witcher had been taken.

"Alma, I brought them!" Callan called as he opened the door to the inn, Jaskier and Lambert on his heels.

"Some of us, anyway," Jaskier clarified. "The others are behind us, probably by a day or so. Where is he?"

"This way," Alma said, leading them to the inn's rooms. "He's in bad shape, though. Hasn't woken up properly since he first collapsed, we're not sure if it's just the infection or if there's something else involved. We've washed him, stitched him up, but there's only so much we can do."

"It's fine," Jaskier assured her. "I'm sure if there's anything that can be done, my wolves will know how to do it. And if not, at least we can see him off with respect."

"I'm just glad it wasn't one of you," she said, and pushed open the door. Jaskier stepped in after her, Lambert behind him, and took in the sight of the strange witcher on the bed. He was a mess of bandages, breathing too shallowly, a sheen of sweat on his skin despite the cool air of the room. Under the bandages and bruises, Jaskier thought the strange witcher probably was rather handsome, with dusky skin and dark curls.

" _Fuck_ ," Lambert said behind him, more of an exhale than actual speech. Jaskier turned to look at him, and was startled to find Lambert pale and stricken, his eyes wide and locked on the witcher in the bed. He stared for a moment, then turned on his heel and all but _fled_ the room. Jaskier frowned, and followed.

Lambert was standing outside, his hands braced against the fence along the innyard, breathing heavily like he was trying to keep himself from vomiting. Jaskier stepped up to him and rubbed his back gently.

"Lambert?" he asked quietly. "What's wrong? Do you know him?"

"Yeah," Lambert said, and swallowed hard. "He's a Cat. His name's Aiden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY ABOUT THE CLIFFHANGER lmao, no I'm not.
> 
> So due to low buffer, I'm going to be switching to an ever-other-week update schedule after this, so the next chapter will be going up 1/15 if all goes to plan. :)
> 
> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> Comments and kudos fuel the writing train and bring me joy and squees. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was going to try to get another scene in at the end but it just didn't quite flow right, which is why this is going up so late. :)

Despite his clear distress over the state of this 'Aiden', Lambert didn't go back into the inn. He didn't help with monitoring Aiden's wounds and stability, or come anywhere near the inn where this person - someone who clearly was important to Lambert _somehow_ , even if he wouldn't tell Jaskier how - and it was both frustrating and heartbreaking.

When Eskel, Vesemir, and Geralt finally got down the mountain with Clover and the cart, Vesemir simply took a bag of supplies into the inn, Eskel behind him as an extra pair of hands, while Geralt stayed outside with Jaskier to help brush Clover down.

"Lambert up with him?" Geralt asked.

"No," Jaskier huffed. "He's been down at the edge of town helping them dig a well, I think. Won't even go back in."

"What?" Geralt frowned. "Why?"

"Lambert _knows_ him," Jaskier explained. "It really shook him up, I think."

"Did he say _how_ he knows him?"

"No." Jaskier shook his head. "Just that he was a Cat and his name was Aiden." Geralt dropped the curry comb, and Jaskier frowned. "What is it?"

"You're _sure_ he said Aiden?" Geralt asked.

"Yes," Jaskier answered. "Why, is there some sort of problem with him?"

"A bit," Geralt answered. "We thought he was _dead_."

* * *

According to Geralt, Lambert and Aiden had been friends, years ago. They met on the path, and the other wolves had never met him, but Lambert had come back to Kaer Morhen for the winters with enough stories of hunts undertaken together or trouble gotten into that they'd known he was important to their youngest brother.

And then, one year, Lambert hadn't come home. Which happened, sometimes, if they were too late getting to the pass, but they'd still worried, and Geralt had been relieved to find him alive - if a bit worse for the wear - the next spring, and assumed his foul mood was due to having missed out on a restful winter at home.

He was still in a foul mood, and in worse shape than he'd been in the spring, when he arrived home with haunted eyes and no stories to tell. It had taken a concentrated effort by his brothers to get him drunk to pry out two words to explain: _Aiden's gone_.

"Do you think you misunderstood?" Jaskier asked, looking down the road as if he could see Lambert and his state of mind from here. "Maybe Aiden just... got tired of him or something?"

Geralt shook his head. "There's... ways we talk about people. Or don't talk about them. If Aiden had ditched him, he'd've been pissed, talked shit about him. But he just... _didn't_."

"Yeah, I was afraid of that," he murmured with a sigh.

They stood silently in the innyard, pondering the way the unconscious witcher had hurt someone they loved, until Eskel came out and joined them.

"Vesemir thinks it's just how bad of shape he was in before he was injured," Eskel said. "Got some Swallow in him, though, and he's breathing easier, so we'll see." He paused as he took in Geralt and Jaskier's expressions. "Who is he, then?"

"Aiden," Geralt answered.

"Wh-- _Lambert's_ Aiden?"

"Yeah."

Eskel cursed, and rubbed a hand over his face. "Well that... complicates things. Has anyone talked to him yet?"

"No," Jaskier said. "I knew he was upset, but I didn't know why."

"Guess that's my job, then," Eskel said, and started walking to where the well was being dug. "Wish me luck."

Eskel did not have any luck. Nor did Geralt a few hours later, and by the time Geralt was done, Lambert was ready to start cussing viciously at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. And Aiden _still_ hadn't woken up.

So Jaskier was expecting, when he finally tracked Lambert down by the stream on the opposite side of town from the well he'd been digging, to find Lambert fuming, angry, pacing perhaps. Something indicative of the response he'd given his brothers, while Vesemir tried to save the life of a man who'd been his friend once. Instead, Jaskier found him sitting on the banks, staring silently into the water. He didn't move or respond when Jaskier approached - if it weren't for his open eyes, Jaskier would've thought he was meditating.

He hesitated a few feet away, wanting to give Lambert the chance to express a desire to be left alone. When he wasn't told to go away, Jaskier finished closing the distance and sat next to him on the bank, staring out across the stream. Eskel and Geralt had both tried _talking_ to him, but looking at him now, Jaskier thought maybe talking wasn't what he needed. Or at least being talked _to_ wasn't what he needed. So, despite wanting badly to ask what was wrong and if he was okay and who Aiden was to him, Jaskier just sat with him, their shoulders mere inches apart, and said nothing.

They sat like that as the sun sank down to the horizon, silent and together.

"He wasn't my friend," Lambert said eventually, his voice soft and rough. "I know they probably said he was my friend. He wasn't."

Jaskier restrained the urge to ask why Lambert was so upset if the Cat wasn't his friend, but stayed silent, canting his head slightly towards Lambert without looking directly at him, to show he was listening.

"He was..." Lambert continued nearly a minute later, only to trail off with a wavering sigh. " _Fuck_ ," he whispered with feeling. "He was fuckin'... he was my... And then he was just _gone_."

Jaskier felt like his heart might crack open in his chest, the realization of what Lambert was saying sinking in. There were only a couple of situations he could think of where a person might be this upset about someone but insist they weren't a friend. Certainly when they were family, Lambert wouldn't describe any of the wolves as 'a friend', because they were his family, his pack. But Jaskier didn't think Lambert and Aiden were pack, not in that way.

"You loved him," Jaskier said softly, so Lambert didn't have to. Lambert let out a strangled sound like a failed laugh and a repressed sob.

"Still fucking do," he managed to respond. "Thought he was dead, he fell off the grid, didn't meet me where we'd planned, two years in a row, and the last place I found traces of him, seemed like he went off on a hunt and never came back. So I figured, y'know... that was it."

Jaskier tipped over slightly to lean against Lambert, pressing against him as comfortingly as he could, hoping the weight and warmth of him might help a little bit. He didn't say anything, despite so many words trying to clamber out of his mouth, of comfort, of validation, of questions why he didn't ever tell the others what Aiden was to him. Lambert needed comfort, but Lambert also needed to be listened to, and to feel like he wasn't being interrogated. Jaskier just hoped silence was still the right decision.

It seemed to be, though, when Lambert leaned into him, resting their heads together.

"Thanks," he rasped after a moment. "For, y'know. Not grilling me about it."

"'Course," Jaskier responded. "This is already shitty, no need to make it worse."

"Yeah." Another silence fell over them for a little while, before Lambert spoke again. "Hey, uh. Don't tell the others? About... you know."

"Not a word," Jaskier swore, and mimed locking his lips shut. "Though once Vesemir gets Aiden stable and healing, they're probably going to figure it out."

" _If_ he does," Lambert said morosely.

" _When_ he does," Jaskier insisted, because Vesemir _would_ get Aiden stable and healing, or so help him, Jaskier would begin a campaign to hunt down fate itself to give it a piece of his mind.

"Yeah, okay, _when_ ," Lambert groused, but seemed to take comfort in Jaskier's certainty. "I'll deal with it when it comes up."

"All right," Jaskier said. "If you're sure you don't want to do it now, I won't say anything. But let's get back to Alma's so you can eat and rest, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Lambert replied.

Neither Geralt nor Eskel asked if Lambert was all right when they got back, but the way they sat down on either side of him and jostled him slightly between them seemed to be enough. At the very least, it didn't require Lambert to answer any questions about how he was doing, and Jaskier considered that a win, given his emotional state and the way he'd lashed out at them before. He ate mechanically, then let the two wolves bully him into a bed in a different room from Aiden, not a word said between them.

Jaskier watched them go upstairs, suddenly exhausted in a way he couldn't explain, and ducked into the room Aiden was in.

"How is he?" he asked Vesemir softly. The old witcher sighed, looking across the room from his seat near the small hearth to the unconscious man.

"He'll make it, I think," he said wearily. "Provided the fever breaks and he wakes up. No guarantee of that, but we've given him the best shot he's got."

"You should go rest," Jaskier said.

"Someone needs to keep an eye on him," Vesemir said. "You're likely a lot more tired than I am."

"Mmm, probably," Jaskier admitted. "But consider this: Lambert needs his father. Don't try to pretend you're not the closest thing he's got," he added when Vesemir opened his mouth to protest. "Or that you don't look after all of us like a parent would, half the time."

"Too sharp for your own good, pup," Vesemir grumbled, but was already pushing himself to his feet. "Sing out if anything changes, we'll be able to hear you."

"Yes, sir," Jaskier said promptly, grabbing the chair and pulling it over to the side of the bed so he could better keep an eye on Aiden.

"Oh and... be careful," Vesemir added, almost reluctantly. Jaskier frowned in confusion, and Vesemir continued, "We Wolves had some bad blood with the Cats in the past. And they're not known for being the most stable of us. I know he's Lambert's friend, so I have hopes he's one of the good ones, but he might try to lash out if he wakes up. He's likely not much of a threat even to you in this state, but..."

"No taking chances, got it." Jaskier smiled encouragingly and shooed Vesemir out of the room. " _Go_ , old man. They need your reassurance."

"Impertinent little bastard," Vesemir grumbled at him as he left, and Jaskier couldn't keep himself from grinning despite the solemn circumstances.

"Well, it's just you and me, it looks like, Master Witcher," Jaskier told Aiden as he sat down. "Though I doubt you'll be much of a conversationalist. It's all right, I've developed a talent for one-sided conversations in the last couple of years. I'd say you know what I mean, but you probably don't, Lambert's by _far_ the most talkative of the pack. Believe me, if you stick around, you'll find out. Eskel will talk if he has something to say. Vesemir will talk if he wants to get involved, which is not _very_ often. Geralt talks an absolute minimum, though you mustn't hold that against him, words just give him trouble sometimes, I think."

It _did_ occur to him that even if he wasn't shouting, it was possible that the witchers just upstairs could hear him rambling, but found he didn't much care. If they had some sort of problem with Jaskier knowing them so well after everything they'd gone through together, they could just damn well _deal_ with it. He passed some time chatting to the unconscious witcher about their travels getting here, about the work they'd done over the winter, about the chickens and Clover and the garden.

"I hope you'll stay," he said eventually, probably near midnight, pitching his voice low enough it would hopefully be out of hearing for his wolves. "Lambert's got this broken angry part of himself that he had to learn to hold in when Szymon had them, I think. Like a shard of glass that needed to be pulled out, but instead got pushed further in? He doesn't like to let it out around me, either, but that's just protectiveness. Just... I think you could help him work it back out so he can heal from it. So it can scar over and he can stop hiding so much of himself."

Aiden let out a soft little exhale in his sleep that could've been a sigh, and Jaskier reached over to brush back his curls from his forehead, as well as check to see if the fever had broken.

His hand barely managed to touch Aiden's forehead before a hand shot up and wrapped tightly around his wrist. Not as tightly as a witcher _could_ , at full strength. Not even as tightly as his... as Tomasz...

Jaskier tried to steady his breathing as he looked down at Aiden, whose un-bandaged eye was cracked open weakly.

" _Don't_ ," the witcher rasped, almost inaudibly.

"I was just checking your fever," Jaskier said evenly. "You've been unconscious for a few days, I need to see if it's broken."

This seemed to confuse Aiden, though he didn't release Jaskier's wrist. (He imagined he could feel the bones grinding together, bruises blooming on his skin.)

"Why?" Aiden asked.

"Because you're Lambert's friend," Jaskier responded easily. "Once you're stable enough, we'll take you up to Kaer Morhen until you're back on your feet. Can I see if your fever's broken, please?"

"Uh," Aiden replied unhelpfully, but he released Jaskier's wrist and didn't protest when Jaskier pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.

"You're still rather warm, but I think it's going down," Jaskier said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It felt too tight and brittle for that, but maybe Aiden was sick enough still that he wouldn't notice. "That's good. Would you like some water?"

Aiden nodded slightly, and Jaskier poured water from a pitcher on the nightstand, and helped Aiden sit up just enough to take a few sips before the witcher was already starting to nod off again.

"You're going to be fine," Jaskier assured him as he laid him back down. "Just keep resting until the fever breaks."

Aiden mumbled something incoherent, then fell silent. Jaskier stepped out of the room and caught Alma's attention where she was cleaning up from the handful of customers she'd had through the night.

"Could you tell Vesemir that his fever seems lower, that he woke up long enough to take a few sips of water, and I had to step out for a minute?" he asked with a hopeful smile. "I doubt he'll be in any danger being alone long enough for Vesemir to get downstairs again."

"Sure," Alma agreed, with a tiny hint of a frown. "You okay?"

"Fine," Jaskier reassured her. "It's just been a long few days, wanted to have a bit of a breather."

"Mm-hmm," she said, clearly not convinced, but didn't press the issue as Jaskier turned and forced himself to walk - not run - out into the night air.

As soon as he was outside and around the side of the stables where he wouldn't be immediately noticeable from the doorway, Jaskier gave in to the way his breathing was trying to come faster, and sank to the ground and pressed his back against the wall of the stable, cradling his wrist protectively to his chest as though he'd been injured. This was ridiculous; Tomasz was dead, _had_ been dead for a year now. His wolves had caught his wrist to stop him or lead him somewhere more than once with no issue. Aiden's grip hadn't even been that _strong_ , he could've pulled his wrist free with no problem at all.

And yet, Aiden's hand snapping out to grab his wrist had still managed to feel like Tomasz's hand bruising and twisting and snapping, a phantom ache radiating up his arm in an all too familiar throbbing way. No matter how much he _knew_ Aiden hadn't hurt him, however much he remembered his father's last breaths, he felt the pain and could swear that Tomasz was coming for him to do that and so much worse.

His too-quick, gasping breaths masked the sound of the door of the inn opening, and footsteps across the innyard until Geralt came around the corner of the stables and - very slowly and deliberately - knelt in front of him.

"Jaskier?" he asked softly, his brows pulled together in a concerned frown. "You with me?"

Jaskier nodded, and the sudden movement made him lightheaded, which only exacerbated his anxiously shaky breathing. There was a small, high-pitched whimpering sound that he couldn't imagine having come from him, but there was no one else for it to have come from. Gods, this was embarrassing enough, having some sort of _fit_ just because a badly-wounded man who didn't know him hadn't realized that Jaskier wasn't going to hurt him, without Geralt witnessing it.

But Geralt didn't seem disgusted or irritated by him, simply sat next to him with his back against the stable wall.

"Can I touch you?" Geralt asked, so gently, the way he talked to children and small animals. Not condescendingly, but so very deeply aware that he was a frightening figure and trying his best to combat it with a soft voice, for all it was rough and low. Jaskier nodded shortly, expecting an arm around the shoulder or a hand on the back of his neck.

Instead, Geralt effortlessly moved him - even curled up as he was - so he sat between Geralt's legs, with his back against Geralt's chest and Geralt's arm firmly but not _tightly_ around him at his shoulders.

"Match my breathing," Geralt said, and took a slow deep breath that Jaskier could follow both with his ears and with the way Geralt's chest rose and fell with him pressed against it. It was a bit of a struggle, and a few of his breaths were stuttered like he was trying not to cry, but eventually he managed to match his breathing with Geralt's, and the slowness of it convinced the rest of his body to fall still and calm.

"Thanks," Jaskier whispered finally, as he went all but boneless with sudden exhaustion.

"Hmm," Geralt replied, resting his chin lightly on the top of Jaskier's head. It should've felt constraining, but the feeling of being caged in by Geralt's legs and arm, pressed back against his chest and under his chin, made the last of Jaskier's irrational anxiety melt away. "You want to talk about it?"

"No," Jaskier said. But he probably should, if only so no one misunderstood and thought that Aiden had done something actually harmful. "Aiden woke up when I was checking his fever. Grabbed my wrist."

"Did he hurt you?" Geralt asked immediately, and Jaskier laughed shakily.

"Not even a little," he answered. "Weak as a newborn lamb, I could've got my wrist back without any effort at all. But he grabbed it, and I just..." he shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know."

Geralt didn't say anything for a long moment. "Tomasz did that a lot," he said finally. It wasn't quite a question, but it hung in the air as if it was.

"Yeah," Jaskier confirmed with a curl of his lip. "Any time it wasn't appropriate to be more _obvious_ about hurting me."

"It's like when I draw my sword from my back," Geralt said slowly, sounding thoughtful. "My heart speeds up a bit because if I draw it, I'm probably getting ready for a fight. Even if I'm not planning to fight, it still happens a bit. Body's used to it meaning something specific."

He fell silent for a moment, like he was putting the rest of his thoughts in order. Jaskier didn't rush him, just leaned back into his chest and letting the warmth of him in the cool night keep him calm and centered while he finished.

"You usually got hurt," Geralt says finally. "So your body's getting ready to be hurt. Adrenaline rush and no outlet for it."

"And so my heart races and I feel scared, even though there was nothing actively scaring me?" Jaskier finishes. He can feel Geralt nod behind him. "Guess that makes sense," he admitted. "Also makes me sound less stupid for panicking."

"You're not stupid," Geralt said immediately.

"Oh, I'm definitely stupid sometimes," Jaskier declared with a little smile. "Did you _not_ see me take Lambert up on the dare to make a snow harpy _naked_ last winter?"

"You're not stupid about _this_ ," Geralt clarified, and Jaskier could hear the smile in his voice, which prompted a smile of his own.

"Maybe not," Jaskier allowed, before falling silent again. Silences with Geralt were rarely uncomfortable, in Jaskier's opinion. Geralt didn't like to talk a lot, sometimes struggled to get his thoughts in a speakable order, but that didn't mean he wasn't present and there. It was comforting, in a way, for Jaskier to sit with Geralt sometimes and simply _be_.

They sat together, simply being, until Jaskier had wound down enough to doze off against Geralt's chest, and he didn't even bother rousing himself to protest when Geralt scooped him up and carried him to bed. Some people might find it embarrassing, to be carried to bed like a child who'd worn himself out with a tantrum or something, but Jaskier didn't.

Geralt cared about him and his comfort enough to soothe him into dozing, and then get him back to a bed so he could sleep comfortably. Jaskier couldn't think of anything more reassuring than that.

* * *

By the next morning, Aiden's fever had broken, he'd woken up properly long enough to eat a light meal, and Lambert was digging wells again.

Well, in fairness, Jaskier was pretty sure he wasn't _literally_ digging wells, but he was off at the outskirts of town doing some sort of manual labor for increasingly grateful-but-concerned residents of Pinebough. He wasn't sure why, precisely, but Lambert was clearly having a lot of conflicting feelings about Aiden, and far be it from Jaskier of all people to judge him for having strong and complicated emotions.

But with Aiden's fever broken and the worst of his injuries healing, Vesemir wanted to get him back up to Kaer Morhen, which meant either leaving Lambert down here to work out his emotions alone, or convincing him to come with them.

"You had the best luck with him before," Vesemir told him. "Try to convince him, because that Cat of his asked after him, but if he's determined, don't push. He'll come back up when he's ready."

"I'll do my best," Jaskier responded, and tried to tell himself, as confidently as he could manage, that of _course_ Lambert would come back with him. The youngest wolf may be conflicted, but he'd obviously want to reconnect with his lover, right?

Jaskier found Lambert helping erect a storage shed for one of the farming families.

"Lambert?" he called, and could see the witcher's jaw clench even as he ignored Jaskier's presence. The farmer's son, who'd been building the shed with Lambert, looked between the two of them and wisely decided to retreat and give them some privacy.

"Here to force me to go back up the mountain?" Lambert asked sharply. Jaskier sighed.

"No, Lambert, I'm not," he said softly. "If you really want to stay down here for a while, Vesemir's already decided to leave you to it. But I don't think you do."

"The fuck do you know?" Lambert sneered, and if it weren't for the fact that Jaskier _knew_ that Lambert's default reaction to fear or anxiety was to be a prickly asshole, Jaskier would be hurt.

"Stop that," he said firmly. "I'm not gonna fight with you. But Aiden's awake, and he was asking about you, and I think you want to see him, too."

Lambert clenched his fists and his jaw, seeming to struggle with that, but didn't respond.

"Lamb, why're you so upset?" Jaskier asked quietly. "He's gonna be okay, he's _alive_ after all this time, and--"

"Because it's been _years_!" Lambert exploded, punching one of the supports for the frame of the shed, splintering it. He stilled, trembling, his head hanging down, his shoulders slumped. "Because he let me think he was dead for _years_ ," he reiterated more quietly. "Why the fuck would he want to see me now if he was so eager to get away from me _then_?"

"Maybe he wasn't trying to get away from you," Jaskier pointed out. "You said yourself, he went on a hunt and never came back. Maybe something happened that kept him from you."

"Like fucking _what_?" Lambert growled.

"Like what happened to you?" Jaskier tried to offer the suggestion gently. While his wolves had told him plenty of stories - even some of the painful ones - about their time on the Path before they came to him, they'd never discussed their capture and enslavement under Szymon, or what it had been like for those not yet captured to see their family disappear. They hadn't offered, Jaskier hadn't asked, and they all largely treated that period of time as though it hadn't happened, much the way they tried to treat most of Jaskier's childhood.

So Jaskier wasn't sure if what caused Lambert to go painfully still was the fact he'd brought it up at all, or the idea that Aiden had gone through anything like what Lambert himself had been through.

"Does he have his things?" Lambert asked finally. Jaskier absently rubbed at Geralt's medallion through his shirt, and shook his head.

"No swords, no medallion," Jaskier said. "Alma said the only reason they knew he was a witcher was the eyes and the fact he was still alive when he got to them."

Lambert let out a soft whining noise, like an injured dog.

"Come on," Jaskier cajoled. "You get back up to the inn, I'll apologize to Bren for you over the splintered beam, and we'll get Aiden back home so you can find out what happened." He bumped his shoulder reassuringly against Lambert's arm. "And if it turns out he _was_ just avoiding you the whole time 'cause he didn't like you anymore, we'll kick him out as soon as he's mended."

Lambert snorted, but a tiny bit of tension seemed to loosen in him, and he nodded.

"You're too fuckin' good at winding me down, you know," he grumbled, and slung an arm around Jaskier's neck in a sort of cross between a hug and a headlock. "It's no fun getting pissed at you, so I can't even cuss you out for bothering."

"I am absolutely unrepentant," Jaskier informed him. "Now get _off_ you lunk, I'll be after you in just a moment."

Bren was generously forgiving, when Jaskier apologized for the splintered beam in his shed's frame.

"We'll do fine replacing it, we're not rushed to finish," he assured Jaskier. "I hope your brother feels less out of sorts soon."

"Me too," Jaskier agreed as he left.

* * *

The journey up the trail to Kaer Morhen was tense, to put it mildly. Aiden, admittedly, dozed or slept for most of it, tucked securely in the cart behind Clover, and wouldn't have been much help even if everyone else hadn't been so wound up. But Lambert was feeling particularly ornery due to the lingering doubts about how Aiden hadn't _died_ , Vesemir was clearly feeling a bit conflicted about having a Cat up to Kaer Morhen, and Eskel and Geralt were mostly at a loss, simply falling silent out of uncertainty.

Jaskier tried, valiantly in his opinion, to lighten the mood with conversation or monologues to himself, but everything he said fell flat in a way that discouraged him from continuing. What little conversation there was to be had, Jaskier found with a very exhausted and rarely-coherent Aiden. With his fever broken and the worst of the infection passed, his body could finally put its energy reserves to mending the rest of him, but his illness (and possibly a fair amount of bad luck before that) had left him with very few reserves and limited ability to regain his strength in a timely manner, so Jaskier was lucky to get ten minutes a couple of times a day.

It was a relief, really, to finally reach Kaer Morhen, and watch Lambert swat Geralt away from the cart to gently scoop up Aiden - fast asleep despite the change in activity - to carry him inside.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Jaskier asked Eskel quietly once they were outside alone.

"I don't know," Eskel answered, pursing his lips. "I think that'll probably depend on Aiden."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Jaskier muttered. "Well, go in and look after him, why don't you? I can handle Clover."

"All right, I know when I'm being shooed off," Eskel said with a faint chuckle.

"Just make sure he's all right," Jaskier pressed. "Or as all right as he can be, given the circumstances."

Eskel's expression softened, and he nodded firmly. "Don't worry so much, pup. We always look out for each other."

"I know." Jaskier smiled tightly. "But it'll make me feel better."

Eskel stepped close and gently grabbed Jaskier by the back of his neck, pulling him close to press their foreheads together in a sort of comfort and acknowledgement that Jaskier'd seen more than a few times but rarely experienced.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Eskel assured him, then ruffled his hair and laughed at the squawk Jaskier let out in response. "Check on the chickens while you're at it," he called over his shoulder. "I'll see to Bleater later."

"Damn right he will," Jaskier told Clover as he led her back to the stables so he could unhook her from the cart and brush her down. "As if any of the rest of us would risk facing her if she's wroth after our time gone. _Honestly_."

Clover whickered but had nothing else to add to the discussion. She and Bleater were adamantly _not_ on good terms, from what Jaskier could tell, and he decided that meant she agreed with his assessment on the likelihood of anyone not Eskel dealing with That Goat.

It took a relatively short amount of time for Jaskier to deal with Clover and the chickens, as the motions were familiar and came easily even with his mind elsewhere. Jaskier would have to speak with Aiden, once he was conscious long enough for such a thing, to try to ascertain if the man was likely to hurt Lambert with any of his revelations. It could be left alone, of course, or he could leave it to Eskel or Geralt, but Jaskier was... protective, still, over his witchers, for what little good that protectiveness could do now. It didn't matter that Jaskier was still a little jumpy around the witcher, after the incident with his wrist - Jaskier would not allow Lambert to be hurt any more than absolutely necessary, and if that meant facing some anxiety and interrogating a witcher, then by the gods he would do it.

Not tonight, though, Jaskier thought with a bit of relief as he finally came inside to find a quick supper of not-quite stale bread and jerky already laid out. Aiden was still sleeping more often than not, and Jaskier needed food and sleep before he could think to approach that sort of difficult conversation.

"Jaskier," Geralt murmured to him, and Jaskier realized with a start that he'd nodded off against Geralt's shoulder at the table, some half-eaten jerky still in his hand. Apparently he needed more sleep than he'd thought.

"Fuck," he exhaled, rubbing his face. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Geralt assured him with a pat on the back. "Let's get you up to bed, though."

"Yeah, okay," Jaskier agreed. "Goodnight, wolves," he added absently to the remaining three witchers at the table. Eskel smiled fondly at him. Lambert didn't seem to notice he'd spoken at all.

"Goodnight, pup," Vesemir rumbled. "Get some sleep."

Jaskier was admittedly relieved to see that all five of their beds were empty, though he was unsure what that meant for Aiden, wherever they'd stashed him away.

"We've got him tucked up in the kitchen for now," Geralt said softly when he noticed Jaskier glancing over the empty beds. "I think Ves'll have us clean up one of the old rooms upstairs for him later, but that's for tomorrow."

"Oh," Jaskier said, and didn't fight against the pressure of Geralt's hand on the small of his back, propelling him towards his bed. He was exhausted, yes, but when Geralt pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed and started to unlace his boots, Jaskier swatted at him. "I'm not _that_ tired, Geralt," he protested.

Geralt looked up at him, the molten gold of his eyes glinting in the flickering candlelight, and smiled faintly.

"I know," he murmured, the softness of his voice sending a little shiver down Jaskier's spine. That softness shouldn't be so electric, and yet... "Let me help you anyway?"

"Oh," Jaskier breathed, looking down at the witcher knelt at his feet, looking up at him like the rest of the world could explode around them without distracting him. "All right."

It was a uniquely intimate experience, having Geralt knelt at his feet, gently and delicately unlacing Jaskier's boots and easing them off his feet. Geralt didn't stop there, gently sliding his socks off and setting them carefully aside. Jaskier wanted to ask him-- no, Jaskier wanted to _order_ him to rub his feet, to tuck him into bed, to provide him with warmth and comfort. But it wasn't his place to be giving orders.

After slipping Jaskier's socks off, Geralt remained kneeling before Jaskier, not touching or speaking, but waiting for further instructions or allowances. Jaskier wanted to demand a kiss. He wanted to demand _more_. Yet he couldn't demand _anything_ without feeling like he'd taken advantage somehow. Maybe their dynamics weren't the same as they had been when Jaskier'd been a prince, but still...

...Still.

Jaskier leaned forward and delicately dropped a kiss on Geralt's forehead.

"Thank you," he whispered, his lips brushing against Geralt's skin as he spoke, before he pulled back to tuck his legs under the blanket.

"You're welcome," Geralt whispered in response, his eyes wide, the gold almost completely obscured now by his blown pupils. Jaskier couldn't quite process what that meant. He _knew_ , obviously, but knowing intellectually and accepting it were two very vastly different things.

"Well, goodnight," Jaskier forced himself to say, almost choking on the words as they were forced out of his throat. There was no answer, and Jaskier somehow counted that a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So full disclosure: I have run out of buffer, classes are starting next week, and I have to finish my Reverse Bang fic, so ch. 10 might not go up on the 29th. I beg your patience and will keep you updated - if you follow me over on tumblr (bygodstillam) you can ask all your questions and I'll let you know if I"m delaying and such! :)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)  
> discord: ruffboi#9097
> 
> Please always feel free to hit me up to scream, sob, and chat! :D I hope you enjoy this ride with me.


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